Evelyn didn't mind being a girl. She knew what it meant to be a girl of her age; wear pink and frilly everything. Love unicorns and poke boys with sticks. Enjoy candy, cartoons, and sleepovers with other girls.
She was unaware--at the gentle, pigtailed age of nine--of all the obligatory accoutrement that she would eventually grow into. At this age, she was not yet familiar with what "patriarchy" means, who Anais Nin was, and what expectations society had in store for her teen-aged and adult selves. Pencil skirts. Spider eyes. Celine Dion. An explicitly specified sense of sexuality.
But these qualities of womanhood were so surface and she questioned much more often the elemental differences between boys and girls. Cosmetic surgery and drag can make anyone anything, so she knew that physical appearance wasn't it. Give a man some duct tape and a woman some duct tape and they can switch roles.
Instead, she thought, while riding her bicycle, if only girls liked riding their bicycles. If only girls sometimes trip up, get a shoelace caught in the cogs, or glance away when eyes should be bullets forward, and scrape and chafe their skin against pavements, dirts, and cool spring grasses. If only girls beat their chests and yawped in pain and pride for their strawberry knees and busted anklets.
Friday, April 17, 2009
[Maybe I could be an Eventually]
Maybe I could be an Eventually
and live up to all of my procrastinations
so that I'm reliable in some respect.
Maybe I'm a not-know,
trying on for size your yesyesyeses or nos and
finding assurance and safety unassuring and unsafe (unsafely).
If any is a euphemism for choice,
count me in as anyone, anywhere, anyhow,
surviving out of and off of anything I can d.i.y.
And if I can live on and propose any anys,
they'd be a handful of unsures, a pride of
idon'knows, a tattle of hmmms.
Camus imbued absurdity in the life of a
million Strangers sold, and I couldn't count
on a more satisfying quietude of apathy.
Now I create divisiondistortion, within the harmony
we float through. So while you're looking at your
watch, I'm trying to avoid planning my next move.
___________________________________________________________________________________
*Because Justine's right, these notes are only for the truly oblivious. But I can't delete them after having experienced the thrill of notes from the likes of T. S. Eliot's "The Wasteland," or most nearly everything from David Foster Wallace.*
* An abbreviation for the contemporary anarchistic creed of "Do it Yourself," the belief that we should live our lives relying solely on ourselves for most of life's predicaments in order to make us more responsible and stronger in character, mind, and body.
**Albert Camus (pronounced Ahl-bear Cam-oo) wrote The Stranger during the Existentialist movement, and it has since been considered one of the crowning achievements in narratively explicating many of the philosophies of Existentialists: the absurdity of life, individuality, non-conformity, hedonism, exploring the significance of tangibles, etc. The protagonist is defined by his apathy towards social norms, living for himself in passive means and ignoring the consequences of his actions.
***Modest Mouse is a terrific band whose single "Float on," is primarily about not getting too heated over lukewarm predicaments in life, but here I enrich the phrasing by emphasizing the passivity (in life and in its multitude of moments of decision) inherant therein.
and live up to all of my procrastinations
so that I'm reliable in some respect.
Maybe I'm a not-know,
trying on for size your yesyesyeses or nos and
finding assurance and safety unassuring and unsafe (unsafely).
If any is a euphemism for choice,
count me in as anyone, anywhere, anyhow,
surviving out of and off of anything I can d.i.y.
And if I can live on and propose any anys,
they'd be a handful of unsures, a pride of
idon'knows, a tattle of hmmms.
Camus imbued absurdity in the life of a
million Strangers sold, and I couldn't count
on a more satisfying quietude of apathy.
Now I create divisiondistortion, within the harmony
we float through. So while you're looking at your
watch, I'm trying to avoid planning my next move.
___________________________________________________________________________________
*Because Justine's right, these notes are only for the truly oblivious. But I can't delete them after having experienced the thrill of notes from the likes of T. S. Eliot's "The Wasteland," or most nearly everything from David Foster Wallace.*
* An abbreviation for the contemporary anarchistic creed of "Do it Yourself," the belief that we should live our lives relying solely on ourselves for most of life's predicaments in order to make us more responsible and stronger in character, mind, and body.
**Albert Camus (pronounced Ahl-bear Cam-oo) wrote The Stranger during the Existentialist movement, and it has since been considered one of the crowning achievements in narratively explicating many of the philosophies of Existentialists: the absurdity of life, individuality, non-conformity, hedonism, exploring the significance of tangibles, etc. The protagonist is defined by his apathy towards social norms, living for himself in passive means and ignoring the consequences of his actions.
***Modest Mouse is a terrific band whose single "Float on," is primarily about not getting too heated over lukewarm predicaments in life, but here I enrich the phrasing by emphasizing the passivity (in life and in its multitude of moments of decision) inherant therein.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Richard
I was born a lion,
and have never felt more like a cub than when I gained my mane.
The mane grew robust and golden, a natural reflection
of the natural selection of who gains responsibility, invincibility.
And everyone expects me to keep the pride,
strengthen the pride, make the pride together and strong.
Today I belched long and deep in the throat
and felt like a lion. But being and feeling are not fraternal.
And it's been months since I bit something
until it bled and slept in the warmth of my jaw.
And if I do so soon, will I experience the
same remorseful jolt I've craved and offered for years?
An old man once dreamt of me trotting along
the coasts of Africa, and asked himself what it means to be [a man].
and have never felt more like a cub than when I gained my mane.
The mane grew robust and golden, a natural reflection
of the natural selection of who gains responsibility, invincibility.
And everyone expects me to keep the pride,
strengthen the pride, make the pride together and strong.
Today I belched long and deep in the throat
and felt like a lion. But being and feeling are not fraternal.
And it's been months since I bit something
until it bled and slept in the warmth of my jaw.
And if I do so soon, will I experience the
same remorseful jolt I've craved and offered for years?
An old man once dreamt of me trotting along
the coasts of Africa, and asked himself what it means to be [a man].
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Our jobs
I wish I could tell you that my job doesn't bleed into us.
But when I come home late, squint at words, words, words, and can't see you,
we know the letting has come.
You wish you could tell me that your job doesn't bleed into us.
But when You come home early, mourn over my absence by fucking someone else,
we know the letting has come.
But I can't come home early,
and You can't come home late,
so when's our thicky thick milkshake
gonna turn into an empty wine glass?
But when I come home late, squint at words, words, words, and can't see you,
we know the letting has come.
You wish you could tell me that your job doesn't bleed into us.
But when You come home early, mourn over my absence by fucking someone else,
we know the letting has come.
But I can't come home early,
and You can't come home late,
so when's our thicky thick milkshake
gonna turn into an empty wine glass?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Corona, Queens, New York, New York
There are six barbershops (and gold traders and bodegas and laundromats) in a 10 minute walk. These trades and services are seemingly flourishing, at least along Junction Blvd. The recession did not affect them because everyone needs a clean cut, Downy clothes, a 1a.m. fix of coconut milk, or cash from World War II brooches.
The streets have never not smelled like la basura and pigeon piss.
Contemporary Mexicana pulses from loudspeakers outside of record shops that also sell shoes.
Under techniwarmcolor fabric umbrellas, glass-plastic boxes of fruits (from sweet sun mangos to succulent flamingo watermelon) and corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick are sold. Thick-spread butter and snowy paprika for savory flavor to grit the sweet crunch of maiz amarillo. Even in these months when we know what "wind chill" means, these umbrellas offer the reminiscence of summer temperatures atop Mayan mountains, lush and green.
Cheekless pantyhose over shameless mannequin budonkadonks and spouseless shoes shrinkwrapped in plastic.
Some random crazy dude yelling craziness in Spanish at the top of his lungs all the fucking time. The same phrase over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. Something about buying cell phones....
Dudes two feet shorter than me handing out cards with beautiful black haired women displaying their curves and the opportunity to talk to them for only $8.00 a minute.
Fifteen hours a day and night of car alarms going off with no one sprinting to be called humanitarians and an ice cream truck with a clap clap clap manifesto rhapsody.
Trash of La Dentista Handbills, Restaurant Sewage, and McDonald's bags line the tiles and curbs and pocks of this urban ground, this gum-tarred and Graffiti pretty streetside. I can't tell you how many infants' socks and shoes, without their significant others, have been been abandoned and left to dampen and spoil in the streets of Corona.
The streets have never not smelled like la basura and pigeon piss.
Contemporary Mexicana pulses from loudspeakers outside of record shops that also sell shoes.
Under techniwarmcolor fabric umbrellas, glass-plastic boxes of fruits (from sweet sun mangos to succulent flamingo watermelon) and corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick are sold. Thick-spread butter and snowy paprika for savory flavor to grit the sweet crunch of maiz amarillo. Even in these months when we know what "wind chill" means, these umbrellas offer the reminiscence of summer temperatures atop Mayan mountains, lush and green.
Cheekless pantyhose over shameless mannequin budonkadonks and spouseless shoes shrinkwrapped in plastic.
Some random crazy dude yelling craziness in Spanish at the top of his lungs all the fucking time. The same phrase over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. Something about buying cell phones....
Dudes two feet shorter than me handing out cards with beautiful black haired women displaying their curves and the opportunity to talk to them for only $8.00 a minute.
Fifteen hours a day and night of car alarms going off with no one sprinting to be called humanitarians and an ice cream truck with a clap clap clap manifesto rhapsody.
Trash of La Dentista Handbills, Restaurant Sewage, and McDonald's bags line the tiles and curbs and pocks of this urban ground, this gum-tarred and Graffiti pretty streetside. I can't tell you how many infants' socks and shoes, without their significant others, have been been abandoned and left to dampen and spoil in the streets of Corona.
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