Down In Me

They didn’t tell me what life would be like. Their breasts spoke to me in riddles. I would stare and note their attributes: C cups with large, dark brown areolas; pendulous, creamy, pliable. Drooping fried eggs, goose skin nature and distinct self-scent. I thought these breasts were universal. The way they’re all supposed to be. I felt ashamed that mine were small, taut and pink that day. I should have retained that sense of shame.

Misty sun floating in through the spaces in the blinds, casting bright stripes on the door frame and wall and the stack of books with no bookshelf. I think you think that I don’t know what’s really going on here. I think you think that I think more of myself than I really do. I think you think that I am smarter than I really am. That I’m well-read, bred, noble. I think you think that I can do what I can’t. I think you think about me. I think I think. I think. I. Think. Too much.

Today I feel fucked. Like after sex when you’re too drunk to say no, but probably wouldn’t have said no anyway just to have a cock to crash on, a hand to hold, it’s all the same. Come on. Like you’ve never. Hurt, muscles sore, orifices splayed, but instead of the complete relaxation of release, you’re frustrated, closed up, shot dead.

Sacrifice clarity for poetry. Sacrifice poetry for sanity. Sacrifice sanity for love. Sacrifice love for a loss of loneliness.

So apparently my mind can still be attractive, even if the rest of me isn’t. There’s a thin line between passionate and psycho, which some straddle well and others piss on. Smell the hot urine running down your thighs.

The sun shines a bright, steaming light on my insecurities, highlighting my shortcomings for you all. Get me the fucking picnic basket. I was born in that ultraviolet stream and I tan like you’ve never known.

Blood is a highly specialised circulating tissue
Blood is a song by a British Indie rock band
Blood is the fluid which circulates
Blood is an album released in 1991
Blood is the liquid containing red cells
Blood is the third episode of the second season
Blood is a bi-monthly medical journal
Blood is essential for life
Blood is a substance that nourishes; moistens
Blood is a 2001 album
Blood is the fluid connective tissue
Blood is a symbol of truth and loyalty
Blood is sacred oaths
Blood is a PC game
Blood is the red fluid in the body
Blood contains the power of life
Blood is the red liquor that circulates in bodies of animals
Loss of blood can indicate loss of love

I was created solar, seafaring, sanguineous. Carved from embattled men, rallying cries and rape. The product of colonial tiles set in the sun baked bones of a well-structured terrace. My salty tears were used to water the crops, raise the tides of the dusty river and pound the white linens clean. My earthly nature robbed; the moist black earth ripped from my lush, fertile grip. I’m rainforest flights of red blue-green, large-beaked and feathered. I decorate decay with lashings of emeralds and gold.

On a breezy night, on the veranda of a cabin perched on the side of a mountain, I lounged on a multicoloured hammock while an olive boy kissed me. He pretended to be shy and pressed his lips to mine, gently concealing his eagerness. His baby skin chin, baby smell, babyish. My baby fat cheeks, pale-plump squashed against his lean face. I inhaled coffee grass, baby hair, muddy mountain goats and slept with my hand in his.

I tried to recreate my hammock lain dreams some time later. I lay like the dead, fingers tightly interlocked over my breathing corpse stomach. Turkey vultures circled crying overhead like horny men. Within minutes, an intrepid sparrow took a shit on the side of my face. I ran into the house hollering. They wanted my body, swinging warm in the colourful threads, flanked by pines and common garden snakes.The next day I took the hammock down forever and recoiled from a beetle on my way back inside. I’m western concrete, earth-devouring and misspent youth.

I saw Ian Curtis crossing the street. I was on the bus to work and he crossed in front of it. It was a rainy-grey morning and he was wearing grey trousers and a black jacket with an upturned collar. His hair was shiny and dark and his skin was pale. He stared at the bus out of the corner of his eye. Ian Curtis was a little angry that the bus driver did not decelerate. The bus driver was a little angry that Ian Curtis was jaywalking. Ian Curtis should not have been crossing in the middle of the street, but he is Ian Curtis so you forgive him his indiscretions. The bus driver does not know who Ian Curtis is. The passengers in the first four seats on the bus do not know who Ian Curtis is. Two men at the back know who Ian Curtis is, but they were talking about girls so they didn’t see Ian Curtis cross the street. Ian Curtis stepped onto the pavement, but the hair of the lady in front of me blocked me from seeing what kind of shoes he was wearing. Ian Curtis continued to sideways-stare at the bus long after we passed him. I wanted to kiss Ian Curtis. I wanted to stop the bus and jump off. I wanted to run towards Ian Curtis and not look stupid. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted Ian Curtis to kiss me back. I wanted his head to be intact. I wanted his body to be warm. I wanted the part of his brain that sang to know me. I wanted his hands to snake down my back. I wanted Ian Curtis to pull me close. I stayed in my seat on the bus. Ian Curtis walked into the pound shop and disappeared from view.

For Blogging Against Disablism 2008

What do you say to someone who thinks you ‘deserve’ what ‘happened’ to you? Because it was caused, directly or otherwise, by something you did. Because you should have known better. Because you should have seen it coming.

What do you say to someone who thinks your genetic defect is “nature’s way of thinning the herd”? Because we can’t all be beautiful. Because we can’t all be healthy. Because we can all be Nietzschean philosophers.

What about someone who thinks your psychological problems are ‘made up’? Because they can’t see or touch them. Because you should have some self-control. Because how can you prove Munchausen’s?

What about someone who thinks your child is ‘cursed’ due to your past? Because you played fast and loose with your morals. Because you were disrespectful of yourself. Because children are but mere extensions of their parents.

What do you say to someone who stares unabashedly at your prosthetic limb? Because they have never seen one up close. Because they can’t imagine a worse fate befalling anyone. Because they pity you.

Maybe you say FUCK OFF, and you carry on. Maybe you say come here, let me educate you. Maybe you don’t say anything. Maybe you don’t speak. Maybe you stew.

Maybe you start to think they’re onto something. Because you’re forced into despair. Because you’re bludgeoned into submission. Because ignorance corrodes.

What do you say?

[Links to the lovely and sweet bloggers who tagged me go here]

[Pithy and sarcastic (yet highly entertaining) comments about memes and blogging go here]

[Meme rules go here]

[Title of suitably intellectual, but not too pretentious book that will make me seem smart, likeable and sexy goes here]

[The three sentences after the fifth sentence on page 123 in all their glorious randomness go here]

[Erudite remarks about the book go here]

[Self-conscious toss about not tagging anyone else goes here]

[Gratuitous link to my actual reading list goes here]

I wasn’t very forthcoming earlier. The truth is that I do care, of course I care. I want to be wild and fancy free, hair blowing in the wind, but I’m shiver shake step by step and scream.

When you roll over in bed and you hug yourself close to me with that mortal fear, I want to die, too. And I understand why you would. Your life, long though it’s been, hasn’t held much of anything in the way of happiness for you. I think. I don’t know. But I think. I could be mistaken, I was never good at that sort of thing. Whatever that is. I tend toward the hopeless.

In later years, though nothing much happens, contentment - or at least placid tranquillity - is still a struggle. It’s all a struggle. Until you close your eyes. And leave me. Like I once. Left you. Only a bit more. With permanence. For time. Without the courtesy of an empty promise like I made you.

I don’t know what to say to you, I never know what to say, but especially now, precious words cower under the duvet between us. Afraid to be spoken. Afraid to be. Afraid like us. Like you. You.

In the night, when the dark envelops you and you get a tiny glimpse of how it might be and you wonder if this is how it might be, only worse. Only worse. Scared. Alone. Hug close. Hold tight.

I swallow hard. I am not equipped to deal with this slow wasting away and yet it’s all we do. Waste. Things. Away. Slowly. I understand. I think. I understand. The self. The pain. I want you to go, but not like this. I’m not sure how. But not like this.

Björk, All Is Full Of Love, directed by Chris Cunningham

ecause he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong. He’s much too big to start fights with the local fishermen, for example. In fact, most of the villagers would run away when they heard his footsteps approaching the town square. Now that they know him, they greet him with the same disinterest they reserve for everyone.

But his hands are enormous. His fingers easily wrap themselves around my shoulders like a coat to hold me in their warmth. I grab one of his fingers with both my hands and it’s rough, but not so rough. Rough in a funny way, an attractive way, a way my soft skin longs to touch. A calloused rub of the cheek and I’m plasticine in his hand; not quite jelly, but supple and giving enough to mould with dedication.

When I hear him stomping heavily through the narrow alleys of town, I perch dramatically on a chaise longue, put on my most beguiling pout and wait: to see that large, green eye, peer through the window and with its fluffy, light-brown lashes, wink the first of our many morning hellos.

“Hello!” he booms.

“Hello to you!” I reply, most jovially of my own accord.

“May the day treat you most kindly, that is to say, slow through what you want, quickly through what you don’t.” He speaks in riddles, of course. Plainly hidden, much the same way he camouflages himself amongst the mountains, pretending to be at least a very large hill.

He plucks a rose bush and attempts to hand it to me before he realises the error of his ways. With a fingernail, he digs a hole and plants the poor creature in my garden and grins.

“Good morning!” he booms again, as I sip my juniper tea.

“Indeed it is!” I wink at his massive smile and nearly offer him a cup before I realise the error of my ways. He laughs heartily and I wince and scrunch my shoulders at this powerful belly rumble from deep. The immediate earth winces, too, and shakes with us.

“I’ve brought my own, thanks.”

We sit side by side on the humid grasses behind my house. Well, it feels side by side. In reality, he sits on the grass and I sit on his knee, only because I don’t wish to sully my dress and his knee is rather more comfortable than the ground, unless I make him laugh again. Languidly, we sip our teas and commiserate on the state of all things known and unknown.

I sometimes pinch the meat on his thigh between my thumb and forefinger just to see if he can feel it (he can). And when he feels a belly laugh coming on (which is far too frequent) he pinches my waist in the same manner, to keep me from falling off. Unfortunately, the pinch doesn’t discourage the violent rumbling from mussing my hair.

We have many rituals with which we conspire to escape. I bring him honey, he feeds me cheese. We talk about the pointless cycles of flowers, or the existentialist notions of bees (they have them). We read many things (a more laborious endeavour than one might imagine, owing to the generally accepted sizes of letters) and sometimes he implores me to sing. Or at least, he doesn’t implore me not to sing, which I think is the same.

And in the late afternoon to early evening, by the last dying light of a fast fading sun, we catch fireflies for minutes and bask in their nature’s warmth. Because he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong.

I love your third world charm
You underdeveloped oddity

Your backward thoughts entice me
Your wayward ways seduce me

Cheaply made clothing, arresting
Heavy accent on deaf ears

Native princess of a new century
To plunder, pillage and discover anew

Big white man claims his prize
Small brown woman’s willling surrender

Stretched out with my legs perched on his lap, a cigarette between my lips, is my most comfortable position. Except maybe for that moment in bed, when I turn onto my stomach and drift off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that I’m being watched. Much later, when I open my eyes to find his, I pretend he never slept. It’s selfish and illogical I know, but some needs don’t answer to reason and needs longing for fulfillment are 95% of the impetus for nearly everything in life.

“You give me magic and I give you grief.”

I wonder about this discrepancy, but gamely end up putting it down to my distorted sense of self. I take comfort from his words, I take comfort from his skin and though it does happen, there’s very little of his I don’t take comfort from. And of that from which I take no comfort, I take knowledge, experience, or something equally useful. The point is I’m lazy, but lucky in some respects. I find comfort I can take, positions I can hold, and sometimes that’s enough.

Me
You
Me
You
Me
You
Me
Me
Me
Me
Me
You

Once there was and once there was not, plenty of time in which to co-exist and extinguish the various flames while looking into eyes streaming with sincerity. Scattered showers cleansed the forests and motorcycles made love to popsicle sticks that glow. Droplets of sparkle-clean mountains made us laugh. Anguish and austerity, we barely glimpsed through glass globes.

I am blank ashes and soft, weathered focus and torrential outpours of sludge; ice in the furnaces of my history set alight through a blazing dim. And in the din of my fool-proof home, I want fairy lights for dinner. While in their soft calm, mechanical beasts swish glide down city streets. I take a crack at stabbing candor. I point and shoot, and miss them all running. I’m tattered pieces of cloud. You’re humid prayers for rain.