Tag Archives: Rage

Current Events

Feminism, Freedom, Inspiration, Memoir, Poetry, Prose, Rant, relationships, Womanhood, , , , , ,

Now that #metoo happened and Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey are going down. And that one comedian is going down too, and even he admits it…I mean, where to start?

9/10 women I know have been assaulted. 1/10 men I know, at least. When I worked in the social field I was required to report whenever an individual brought up a case of sexual abuse, and I did, only to be told on one occasion, “Oh yeah, she always says that but she’s lying.”

Is she? I mean why would she lie about something like that? The girl was so psychologically traumatized by the event she couldn’t escape it. She punched mirrors, and then was reprimanded for it. She spent hours in the bathroom crying. “She’s just trying to get attention,” my superiors told me.

Well for fuck’s sake, let’s give it to her.

What I didn’t say was: I punched mirrors too.

What I didn’t say was: you keep crying. You let it all out. It’s totally, 100% okay to be sad, and angry. It’s normal and healthy to feel that way and I’m glad your dealing with it. Oh yeah, and, FUCCCK HIMMM.

Regardless, the girl was hard to get through to. But I believed her. Why the hell not? What is the goddamn harm? Something’s hurting her, it’s clear. What really angered me was the way  the counselors  shut her down–no matter what did or didn’t happen. You don’t do that. YOU don’t KNOW that.

***

Uma Thurman, just this morning, was quoted on NPR. Angry, she said.

Angry.

She had always been afraid of revealing her anger and rage toward men. Those were her primary emotions.

Uma Thurman, coincidentally, is the actress who stars in Kill Bill and assumes revenge on a team of assassins, wielding a sword.

***
I have three essays on the topic that NPR is keeping, gracefully and rightfully, in the forefront. One essay I submitted two or three months ago, before #metoo, but it was declined. “Too short,” the editor told me. “It felt like it needed more of an ending,” she said.

I have read enough stories about publishing to know by now that I could potentially resubmit the same essay, new ending or not, and it would be more likely to be published. Timing. It’s half, or more, about the timing.

But I was smoking in the essay and I’m not smoking now so if I use that essay I would have to make that clear (take it out) and if I were already doing that, well I might as well change the ending.

But boy was I angry in that story.

***

Another story is called Stench. I wrote it in an attempt to just State The Facts and not skirt around the issue like I do in my poetry and in a good portion of my other writings. Sadly, the essay is far too revealing for my tastes.

I’d only publish it if someone paid me for it. Not much. Candy even.

***

In the final essay I braid one of my experiences with the experience of a girlfriend who was assaulted while travelling abroad and staying in a hostel. I also want to add to the story of another friend of mine who was flat out assaulted when some “friends” of hers drove around the block again and again refusing to drop her off until she performed a sexual act on one of them.

These were stories mentioned to me in passing. Nobody called me up and said “You’re not going to believe what happened to me!” No. Ha. That’s not the kind of world we live in. These stories are commonplace. Not that they should be. They are eventually told over tea and whispered in coffee shops and are rarely mentioned when men are in the house.

And they are just these sad little stories that  took us women farther  and farther from our bodies in a world where these very bodies are used against us in nearly every mainstream advertisement. “He won’t want to abuse you if you don’t look like this,” the world seems to tell us. Not fair. Not fair all around.

And they are not just sad little stories.

No, they are LARGE and ANGERED stories. Sword wielding stories, if we were to act like like barbaric men in the matter. But we only do that while playing dress-up and acting.  Because for the lot of history, we women have been civil.

And they are not just sad little stories just like Weinstein and Trump (!!) are not just dirty old men.

That’s what I was always told growing up: “Oh he’s just a dirty old man.”

I think we can all agree, it’s time to take “just” out of the sentence.

Oh, he’s a dirty old man.

Stay away from him.

Lock him up.

Fire him.

SHAME

him.

***

There is no synonym for pedophile.

 

 

 

October First, 17

Dreams, Freedom, Poetry, Prose, Rant, relationships, Spirituality, , , , , ,

We woke on a Monday to news of our nation’s
largest mass shooting in recent history
The numbers towering that of Pulse nightclub
and that one kindergarten class.
You know the one.
Blood on children’s books. Teachers diving to
save lives. Sick, twisted, white. He fell between the
cracks and rose up, armed and angry.

It took multiple people
and all of their fingers
and all of their toes
to measure the fatalities.
It took the fluid communication of
dozens of doctors and nurses,
shocked, exhausted,
and thundered
from their sleep
to confirm the heads
of the dead–all innocent people.

All reaching for enlightenment
in the way of music and rhythm
and bright lights in rocking and rolling
Las Vegas, Nevada.
Crimson blood on bouncing curls.
Women’s fancy hair-do’s, upright.
Women’s country-strong bodies, horizontal.
Else running, confused, mind-churning.
Women and children, elders and men,
dancing, swaying, shielding, ducking.
Mouths open in terror
Eyes going in all directions
The realization of the
heavy importance
of those you love.

I’m sorry’s.
I love you’s.
I don’t understand’s.
I do cherish you’s.
I’m thankful I was spared’s.
Trauma. Blood. Boots.
Question marks.

A glittering TRUMP emblazoned
in the background.
A name synonymous with
dollar signs. And one million
other things by this point,
depending precisely on who you ask.
In other news: a rock star died.
In my opinion: it matters little compared
with the loss of 59 lives, 500 wounded.

October 1, 17
The day 59 rock stars perished
before they really had the chance
to sing.

The Hole

Freedom, Inspiration, Poetry, relationships, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing, , , , , ,

The hole inside of you does exist
but it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions

“What are you trying to forget?” I once asked a
man who drank too much (according to me, mind you)

“What? Me? Nothing.”

Oh.

The hole inside of you may be there
it’s true
Maybe blasted open in youth, a big
gaping hole of neglect and rejection
or maybe you’ve been carving away at it
for decades, an attempt to become a real
Rockstar–edgy and tortured

The hole inside of you does exist
I’m sorry I ever said it didn’t
but you turn that hole upon its head
and it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions
it’s all in how we look at the cavern
light it up and it’s not so bad after all
not so bottomless–albeit there

Billboard People

Poetry, Rant, Writing, , , , ,
Instead of regurgitating facts
why not digest the knowledge
Instead of claiming ideas as your own
shoving them down my throat
like capsules of lead
let them collect around you
and carefully handle the wisdom
grow to understand it …
before you accept it
Everything has a label now
most of all, our own persons
are we not all tagged as this
or that?
Who am I if I do not
promote myself to you?
Do I exist at all?
Have I no life if
I am not on display?
Have I got no education if
I don’t wear it like a badge?
Have I got no past if
I don’t carry my albums
in my mouth
spilling them out
on the floor at every change
waiting for you to stop
talking so that I might
do my dance
How old are we anyway?
Still young enough for
Show and Tell?
Are my bones
my breath
my eyes
my body
all lost on you?
Is my presence
not enough?
I forgot my billboard
at home
You forgot my
address
my phone number
You forgot I’m
a person
not a number
Not friend
number 362
but a soul
a spirit
a woman
begging
authenticity
from
you

Esther

Memoir, Poetry, Writing, , , , , , , , , ,

Did I dream her up?
I met her in the vegetable garden. It was sometime near my fifth birthday. I was fingering the dense pumpkin stocks and their broad leaves like wall insulation to the touch–misleadingly soft and cozy. Like a five year old herself.
She appeared there beyond the ripe orange globes.
She stared at me,  reached out to touch the vines.
She was my age. Her eyes spoke to me but her childmouth never moved. I admired her wetsand-colored curls as she told me that we were Identical. That he touched her too. That he came for her when he was done with me, that he came for me when he was done with her. She told me her name was Esther. Before I could respond, he pulled up in his Chevrolet. I crouched down in the path in my Autumn dress. I peeked my eyes above the garden greens as he pointed to the passenger door instructing her to get in. My eyes got big and wet, her dress was caught in the door, they drove down the dirt lane toward Hunter Creek and I shook but it wasn’t cold outside.

No Title

Memoir, Poetry, Writing, , , , ,

For how long
can we
trapeze this love?
Before falling
     f
       a
            l l
               i
                   n
                           g
with I love you’s
and titles.
We run from
those words,
playing hide
and go seek
For surely
those words
lead to
   I don’t love you
             any
                 more.

For how long
can we babystep
this desire?
Knowing All-grown Up
desire is
dumb.

For how long
can you go
without
calling me Yours?
For how long
can I?

Little Robby

Inspiration, Poetry, Writing, , , , , ,

Some people are firestarters
others rain
others rock
women are animals
that men hunt
men are butterflies that
can’t ever really be caught
I am free and I am burdened
I use the fire to get me hot
I put it out when I get lost
I was never my mother’s
not even in the womb
a psychic on Alder street said
when the seed was planted
I was bloomed
I raged out of her fists up and
how do I shake it?
Angry babies are not funny
they just try to fake it
I was always my father’s child
If at a distance
I was a grown man,
a grown woman
I am fire, ice
all of it

Hot & Cold & Nothing In-between

Poetry, Writing, , , , ,

I want to be on
top of the world
but am unwilling
to climb even a mole hill
I want to grab IT by
the horns,
by the balls
but I’m either
too weak
or too disgusted
I want fame
but I am unwilling
to emerge from this,
dinged and dented, shell
I want Home Sweet Home
without paying a cent
I want love without
getting naked
I want it masked and
mysterious and
practically perfect
I want pleasure
and I want it to roll
and unfold forever
I want truth but I
like fantasy even better
I want respect,
I want it now,
and without having to give it
I want the Earth but I want
Starbucks to-go cups too
…and cars
I want family but not
red and green holidays,
toothaches,
ignorance,
incest,
smelly bathrooms,
ugly toes,
he-said-she-said’s,
why don’t you’s,
chatter-induced headaches
and taking care of Dad…
I want friendship,
health, and happiness
but I refuse to go out
and get it

I Want To Be

Memoir, Poetry, Writing, , , , , , , ,

I want to be forgiven
for what I’m about to do
to you
catch and release
you’ll be guy number five
I’ll be your girl number two
your first
your last
your mystery
I want to be whipped
into shape
taught a lesson
fondled and driven
to madness
wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said tell me
to put on a dress
I said ask me
to take down my hair
I said
I want to be whipped
into shape
I want to be tamed
lead me
guide me
I want a man
I’ve never seen a man
I’ve rarely seen a man
I thought I saw a man once
but he walked into the day
and by night he was all gone away
I saw a man once
who had It
I saw a man who
could tame me
but he didn’t want a thing
to do with this woman
with this body
with this piece of work
right here
I want to be forgiven
I want to be whipped
I want to be tamed
I want to be a girl
who is chased
but women like me
are so bold
so brass
women like me are
more of a man
than you’ll ever be
chew on that
and when
you’re a man
come back to me
cause I want to be
whipped
hard
I want to be tamed
and pregnant
I want to be
forgiven

Unplug–the Internet’s a Spiritual Rip Off

Dreams, Inspiration, Memoir, Rant, Writing, , , , ,

ed7638e386442fc8843e7f178fcf36fcIt’s not a simple time. It’s no longer a simple life. But the simple life is sold and we fall for it. The simple life is sold in t-shirts branded “Simple”. Simplicity is cropping up in your local malls and its shops are growing larger and its simple products are getting more and more. Simplicity is getting expensive. And trendy. But are you being true to yourself? Do you feel simplified?

Spirituality is promoted until it’s not spiritual anymore. The Dalai Lama preaches humility, thrice a day via Twitter. Ideas are exchanged and yoga studios promise enlightenment just… after… this… one… last… post…then its time for meditation. For real this time. “Off to meditate.” “Done meditating.” “Was great.” “Feel so good.” “Can’t stop typing.” “Don’t forget to ‘Like’ us for a dollar off your next workout.”

I personally can’t deal, can’t hang. My thoughts didn’t pinball around in my head until I was pulled every which way by technology. At night, morning and noon, like you, I groggily shuffle to the laptop and quest for information, enlightenment, validation, and discounts. I sit for hours and I find out a lot but I rarely find what I am looking for. And I NEVER find exactly what I’m looking for. Health. Love. Genius. I am disappointed. I am exhausted.

So I quit. Again. From now on I will no longer have a computer in the house, internet on my phone, or even a television. My home 8a2a0f52f232193ed232a70b43779489will house books, food, hot water and a bed. You know–the essentials. And when I come home from work, I will be able to hear myself think. What a concept.

I will no longer search for the things my spirit needs on Google. It doesn’t work that way. Ask yourself: are you exhausted? Let down? Out of touch with those around you? Out of touch with yourself? You might want to consider what I’m doing: unplugging. Already it’s been two days sans Internet and I. Feel. Peace.

Does that mean I’m done blogging? No. Not even close. I will still post weekly, respond to your comments, and read your work. I have computer access–I have my ways. But my Internet use will be scheduled and moderated. And no I will not be signing up for Google+ and Facebook like some of you have requested. I already have WordPress, Twitter, MySpace and Gmail. What more do you want world?

The only way my spirit will thrive is if it has space to breathe. End of story. The Internet is full of false promises. Beware. Truth lies in the space around your head and in the seemingly empty corners of your home. The world is magical if you just unplug and play with it.