Hi all,
So, my throat is sore and my head is spacey, and ironically this is making it difficult for me to focus on the book I have with me, called The Body in Pain, by Elaine Scarry. Instead, I think I will make a nice survey for you to take, if you feel so inclined. And I will answer my own questions now, so as to be fair and not pave a road with good intentions like the last time.
1. Close your eyes. Turn your head slightly to the right. Open them. What do you see? A white table, chairs with gray cushions, a sign detailing what is prohibited in Cabot Science Library.
2. Are you reading a good book now? What is it? I am almost done with Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, but can't quite bring myself to finish it. I think this is because it is the last novel I have to read for class, and beyond that it's all scholarly stuff. Not that I'm not reading the scholarly stuff now, but somehow this is psychologically relevant.
3. It's 2008. Do you believe this? Not really. I mean, I get the date right when I write it down or something, but I think sometimes I still believe it is 2004, when I graduated Bryn Mawr. I don't know why, but when I pick up a book or something that was written in 2004, I'm always like, wow, that's really new... wait... it's not.
4. Do you want to do a paper about Christian tattoos as icons? No.
5. Is it abnormally warm today where you live? Yes!
6. Have you ever been in a serious physical fight? Tell me about it. Why did it happen? What did it feel like? If you've been in many, pick one. I have not been in a serious physical fight. I have been in play-fights, and they feel like there's this energy I always carry that is suddenly focused, absorbed, and released.
7. Can you see out a window right now? If so, describe the first person you see out the window. If there's no person, or no window, tell me who is not there. I see a woman in a denim jacket with red-brown hair, walking on the rock fountain with a child who is out of view. I was going to make up a story about her, but it seems suddenly disrespectful.
8. What is right in front of you that you love? Right now I feel warmly toward this man sitting in a chair with his hands interlaced on top of his bald spot. He is wearing a tan jacket, a button down shirt of an indescribable browny-gray color, and a watch.
9. What is right in front of you that you find perplexing? I am perplexed by two small squares of velcro affixed to the circulation desk.
10. Are you tired? Yes.
11. When is the last time you made a conscious decision to lie? Why did you do so? It was a couple of weeks ago. I did it to preserve a man's good opinion of me across difficulties of language, culture, religion, sexual mores, etc. I did it to make my life easier. I don't know if it has or not.
12. What worries you right now? I am worried because I feel like I have a cold or something, and I need to be healthy when I go to Baltimore. I am worried about my school work. I am worried about the future.
13. What pleases you right now? I am pleased to be wearing shoes, not boots. I am pleased by the feel of the rim of the little garbage can against the arches of my feet. I am pleased that my shift is over in 45 minutes. I am pleased by seeing Charlotte every day, and I am pleased to be home with Rachel and Amy. In a general sense, not right at this moment, clearly.
14. What can you hear right now? Security guards discussing politics. It's interesting.
15. What (approximately) was happening in your life 5 years ago? I was 20 years old... I was still in Europe, I think, travelling with Rachel and Katie. Now I want to look up and see exactly where we were, or if we were coming back yet. I'm going to guess that it was a later part of the trip, perhaps Berlin or Paris or Dublin. Was it in Ireland that Katie told us about this blackcurrent ale or cider or something? And we got some in a pub? I remember the way the streets looked in Dublin, somehow, more than anything else. And I remember that statue of Oscar Wilde. That was in Dublin, right?
16. Has anything fundamentally changed about your emotional life since then? That's a hard question. But I have no one to blame for it but myself. I think I'm on a little more of an even keel than I was then, but fundamentally... I'm not sure that anything is fundamentally changed. Or, I think the way I understand my emotions is a bit different, but the sensations themselves are not, really. Oh... I have noticed that I am much more easily moved by things than I used to be. I find myself tearing up over lots of things, on TV or whatever, that never would have produced such a reaction before. I don't know why that is, but I think it has something to do with getting older, having a range of experiences that stretch out to contact more than they could before, and... something I can't describe, something about a broader awareness of just how vulnerable we are, of just how bad things can be. (That doesn't explain what I want to explain at all, and sounds weird. But still.)
17. Do you have any secret that you have never told anyone, at all, ever, even anonymously? I honestly didn't think so as I was writing that, but now I am thinking of things that I don't think I ever told anyone. However, I don't have anything that is a constant presence with me, that I have never told anyone, at all, ever, even anonymously.
18. Have you ever hugged a book? Yep.
19. Thrown one across the room? Yep.
20. Hit one? Yes.
21. Kissed one? I think so.
22. Destroyed one on purpose? No.
23. Yelled at one? Yes.
24. Refused to continue reading at one point due to a moral objection to certain events, but then just had to get back to it? Would I make up such a question if the answer was no? It was The Witching Hour by Anne Rice.
25. Have you done all those things to other people? I have not thrown a person across the room, nor destroyed one on purpose. And... this is interesting... I don't think I have ever explicitly refused to associate with someone because of moral objections. I think the only people I have had deep, sincere, lasting moral objections to with regard to their behavior have not been my friends. What does this mean?
26. What is the strangest thing you have ever hugged? Probably a dumbwaiter. It was a big one.
27. Kissed? A locker.
28. The very first time you were enamoured of someone, what did you do in immediate reaction? I ran weird circles around my room, sort of jumping over my bed, listening to an a capella tape of "For the Longest Time" and singing.
29. Name something unusual that had some influence in your sexual development. Lucius Cornelius Sulla.
30. And something cliched? Spin the Bottle. But I wasn't playing, really.
31. How about a minor guilty secret? Doesn't have to be about sex, just something not-huge that bugged you. Hmm... I never bought Annie on my Mind, in high school, even though I wanted to read it, because I didn't want the cashier to think I was a lesbian. And I thought that was dumb, especially since I was often buying books with gay men in them. But I still didn't buy it.
32. What about a small act of heroism? There was this man lying in the alleyway beside Merriam Theater, and everybody was sort of uncomfortably hoping he was ok and not dead and not in serious trouble, and I finally just went out myself and woke him up and made sure he was alright. That's pretty small, but it felt like kind of a big deal when everybody was older than me and technically more experienced in life.
That's all folks, time to leave work! Take my survey for a rip-roaring good time!
Showing posts with label violence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label violence. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Monday, March 12, 2007
Not Quite Paradise
Before going to bed last night (which was weird enough anyway, since I had a sudden mild illness that has now disappeared, happily), I read a few pages of Toni Morrison's Paradise, which I have to read and write a response paper on for class next week. I find that reading novels before bed is way more successful than reading books about say, brain chemistry, or legal definitions of race.
I have read Paradise before, but, probably because we were going through all of Morrison's novels at breakneck speed, I remember almost nothing about it. The first few pages, in which women at a convent (but not nuns, I don't think) were being pursued and shot by men, reminded me a little. And then I fell asleep.
After a brief dream in which I went back to my old high school for a class with all my old classmates, I segued into a dream that was explicitly about the book. That is, in my dream, I was re-reading the book as I had been in real life, but my re-reading took the form of explicitly experiencing the things in the book, with a sort of fuzzy consciousness reminding me that I knew what would happen and that it will be all right.
In my dream, I was simultaneously a little girl and a grown woman caring for the little girl, and most of the time we were black. I remember looking at my skin with some fascination. But I think other times we might have briefly been white, almost like my brain forgot to make the switch. Anyway, there was this man coming after us, also mostly black, and he had seen a flyer that offered a reward if you killed women and children that were unaccompanied by men. He was someone we knew, but the woman knew he was going to try to kill them, and the little girl didn't. So the woman had to quiet the little girl and get her to hide. In my memory of the book, I had an image of the man sort of beating the top of a tree with a baseball bat while the woman and the girl hid below. This translated into us hiding in a sort of wooden structure below the floor of the the house we were in, and hearing the man crashing around with his bat. I think he was drunk, too. It was terrifying.
Then my perspective switched and I was outside, looking at the house and the man, although part of my consciousness was still with the girl and the woman. And I saw in an upper window that there was a doll house, and that the woman had convinced the girl to reach up through the floor of the doll house and manipulate the dolls inside, so the man would think we were playing there and come attack it. And I was shocked by this plan, even though I knew it had to work. The man saw the dolls moving and started to head for that part of the house. I knew he was going to smash up the doll house, but I didn't know how we were going to escape after that. I had images of us crawling out the bottom of the house somehow while he was occupied on top, but it was just such a terrifying idea, that we would have to lie there while he broke everything around us, that I guess I couldn't stay in it anymore, because I woke up.
Bizarre and scary, and I will be somewhat curious to see what it has to do with Paradise in reality. Hopefully not too much, but the novel already seems chilling and bleak.
I have read Paradise before, but, probably because we were going through all of Morrison's novels at breakneck speed, I remember almost nothing about it. The first few pages, in which women at a convent (but not nuns, I don't think) were being pursued and shot by men, reminded me a little. And then I fell asleep.
After a brief dream in which I went back to my old high school for a class with all my old classmates, I segued into a dream that was explicitly about the book. That is, in my dream, I was re-reading the book as I had been in real life, but my re-reading took the form of explicitly experiencing the things in the book, with a sort of fuzzy consciousness reminding me that I knew what would happen and that it will be all right.
In my dream, I was simultaneously a little girl and a grown woman caring for the little girl, and most of the time we were black. I remember looking at my skin with some fascination. But I think other times we might have briefly been white, almost like my brain forgot to make the switch. Anyway, there was this man coming after us, also mostly black, and he had seen a flyer that offered a reward if you killed women and children that were unaccompanied by men. He was someone we knew, but the woman knew he was going to try to kill them, and the little girl didn't. So the woman had to quiet the little girl and get her to hide. In my memory of the book, I had an image of the man sort of beating the top of a tree with a baseball bat while the woman and the girl hid below. This translated into us hiding in a sort of wooden structure below the floor of the the house we were in, and hearing the man crashing around with his bat. I think he was drunk, too. It was terrifying.
Then my perspective switched and I was outside, looking at the house and the man, although part of my consciousness was still with the girl and the woman. And I saw in an upper window that there was a doll house, and that the woman had convinced the girl to reach up through the floor of the doll house and manipulate the dolls inside, so the man would think we were playing there and come attack it. And I was shocked by this plan, even though I knew it had to work. The man saw the dolls moving and started to head for that part of the house. I knew he was going to smash up the doll house, but I didn't know how we were going to escape after that. I had images of us crawling out the bottom of the house somehow while he was occupied on top, but it was just such a terrifying idea, that we would have to lie there while he broke everything around us, that I guess I couldn't stay in it anymore, because I woke up.
Bizarre and scary, and I will be somewhat curious to see what it has to do with Paradise in reality. Hopefully not too much, but the novel already seems chilling and bleak.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
George W. Bush is Not My Valentine
He talks to us as though we are five, and about people in other countries as though they are infants. Unfortunately, he also handles incredibly dangerous situations as though he is a slightly older playground vigilante fighting to be king of the hill.
In what universe are people going to listen when we say "we can have nuclear weapons, but not you, because we know best and we say so"?
Good Lord, this money restriction thing is going to be a problem.
He does look tired, and gets so irate so easily. He's like someone being called onto the carpet and grasping at defensive straws. His arguments do not make sense, but he presents them as though to disagree is a basic failure in intelligence and understanding. Wow, he's totally going off. Do presidents usually get so snippy?
I wish I understood more about this Iran thing. Does anyone have any insight into the situation there beyond what I am hearing in this conference?
In what universe are people going to listen when we say "we can have nuclear weapons, but not you, because we know best and we say so"?
Good Lord, this money restriction thing is going to be a problem.
He does look tired, and gets so irate so easily. He's like someone being called onto the carpet and grasping at defensive straws. His arguments do not make sense, but he presents them as though to disagree is a basic failure in intelligence and understanding. Wow, he's totally going off. Do presidents usually get so snippy?
I wish I understood more about this Iran thing. Does anyone have any insight into the situation there beyond what I am hearing in this conference?
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long-Legged Beasties
And things that go bump in the night.
This post could be so many things. I'm waiting to see what is actually going to come out of me. Because I feel that I could be philosophical, or wildly angry, or just tired. Perhaps I'll have a shot at all of them.
First, I think, the anger. Yesterday anger was definitely my deadly sin of choice. First of all, Septa is certainly aptly named, if by Septa we wish to refer to a sort of sluggish and fetid septic system: it is irritating and it stinks, but you'd sure as hell rather it worked (in its own inimitable way) than not at all. And I DO NOT want to pay the normal amount for my transpass, and then have to pay all kinds of taxi charges and walk my legs off anyway because the train and the LUCY whatever don't actually run at the right times or take me where I want to go. But I don't know if I can keep getting up at 7 AM to get to work by 9. I mean, there were ways in which it was nice today, but I'm really tired now and it's only 10 AM, and because of the show I will have to be here for about 12 more hours. Same for the walk home- generally I like it, but sometimes I like to get home and start dinner BEFORE 8 PM. Septa: YOU DO NOT STAND UP TO THE TIGER. YOU SUCK HIPPODICK. PLEASE WORK AGAIN, OR FOR THE FIRST TIME.
Then, the CREEPY FUCKING NEIGHBORS. The CREEPY FUCKING NEIGHBORS decided to decorate their CREEPY FUCKING HOUSE for Halloween with a carefully detailed assortment of bloodied and mutilated baby dolls, complete with bloody handprints all up the front columns of the house and little nooses in the trees. Fucking gross, tasteless, creepy, and disturbing. I began to cringe from passing the damn place. But, at the same time, it is their house and they can, I suppose, decorate it as they please, whether or not I find it acceptable or pleasant. Granted, I don't actually feel this way... of course, I wanted to take all their baby dolls away and paint flowers and rainbows across their windows (in a vindictive kind of way). But I do understand what is the law of the land, and it makes sense to me. So I, while not accepting their decorations as such, was prepared to live in peace. However, I'm coming home from work... after a LONG day, with irritations that may be described hereafter... and I am hungry, and I've been walking for about an hour and forty-five minutes (see above re. Septa). And I see this crowd of people outside the CREEPY FUCKING HOUSE, having, apparently, a CREEPY FUCKING PARTY. Except at first I just thought it was a party. I even felt more kindly disposed toward them... I thought, hey, they're just having a Halloween party like everybody else, obviously they just got... carried away with the babies, and probably they are normal human beings after all. The I see this man in a creepy staring mask, walking up and down the sidewalk, dragging his shovel behind him so it scrrrrrapes all along the cement, then scrrrraping it back the other way. I don't know what the man is doing. At first I do not suppose it has reference to me. (I'm not sure why I'm switching tenses wildly in this narration, but please forgive as I do not feel like going back and making it all consistent.) Then, as I get closer, he starts following me down the sidewalk. I saw his creepy blank staring leering face entirely too close to mine, and I heard his shovel dragging and scraping along behind me even when I refused to look back, and it made me shudder and put my hand to my face, and I was sooooooooooooooooo angry at him for frightening me. I was a little electric bundle of anger and fear. Right before I went in my own building, I saw this man carrying a garbage bag coming toward me out of the shadows and my whole body tensed. It was a nice old Asian man, smiling at me as he brought out his trash! But my body did not believe.
Then Rachel came home and I gave her a violet plant and a card for our cohabitation anniversary, and we decided to go to the Indian buffet because they would have dinner ready right away and that is what we required at that time. So... back out the door, back down the street, and as we got close to the CREEPY FUCKING HOUSE I began to hear that scrape scrape scraping again and I saw the masked man was still going up and down the sidewalk. He started following close to Rachel and I as we passed, and this time we were hedged in on the other side by a man in a red demonic mask leering up at us too. The blankness of the masks was the most horrible thing about it. The fact that I could not tell where their real faces began, that they could see my whole, real face with my feelings on it and all I could see of them was leering, malevolent rubber. I felt such malice, from them and toward them. I was so hungry! I wanted to scream obscenties at them in a way I have never done. I walked a bit faster, and when I turned my head and saw the red mask right beside my face, tilted in ill-intended curiosity, it was more than I could take. I don't really know how it happened, but I felt something break inside of me and suddenly I was charging down the street away from them, not running but marching as fast as I could, getting away. I walked like this until I was halfway down the next block I was trembling deep inside with anger. Anger was all I could feel, and tension, and nerves, and a terrible boiling rage with only the lid of my skull to keep it inside me. I kept marching all the way to the restaurant. Ocassionally I felt my mouth stretch in a strange nervous/bitter parody of a smile, the social-ness of my self breaking through, the feelings breaking through in a way they knew was appropriate. But mostly... tension, anger, anger, anger, tension, fear, anger, anger, rage. This wholly hot and consuming, absorbing rage, and so much tension that I flinched when a man in a doorway lit up a cigarette, the flame flashing into its small life pulling some string inside of me. I could not calm down. I could not stop feeling it, though somehow I knew that it was my choice to feel it. How both of those things could be true I don't know. When I could finally speak I began to rant about what they had done, this harrassment, how they had no right to follow me and frighten me... and Rachel said, "They're just idiots, it's Halloween." And I heard my voice passionate and trembling, rage and tears bundled and wound up inside it, saying, "I don't care what they are, I don't care what it is." No forethought in that voice, no reason. Only pain and rage, and a sort of vocal ultimatum... I remember the feeling: They are my enemies, don't ever defend them, even with their own stupidity. The sound of my voice was... striking. Different. I stewed inside my anger, on and on, and I began to wish for it to stop. I had been imagining impossible revenges, and had taken great satisfaction in imagining stumbling upon a police car, magically stopped on a curb, waiting, and telling them that there were people harassing passers-by. But at 40th st., in front of the Fresh Grocer, I imagined killing them. It didn't just cross my mind, "I'll kill them," I imagined doing it. I imagined their fear. I imagined their pain. I imagined cutting their throats and I saw the blood. I wanted to kill them for real, and I imagined it all. And as the bloody images passed through my mind, I felt my shoulders begin to relax. I felt the tension seep out of my chest.
I had been thinking just hours before about compassion, and forgiveness, for matters so far beyond being scared and harrassed in the street. And here I was with this violent, explicit, burning anger in the heart of me. And I still feel it, when I think about what happened. In some ways I love my anger, although I refuse it often and I fear it, too. But it makes me feel more powerful, to know that it is there.
I have been thinking so much lately about evil and violence... Capote, Turtles Can Fly, The Autobiography of God... it's like I asked the universe, Evil 101, please. I've been dreaming about powerful male captives that kill and charm and break away. Captives I should perhaps kill but that I never do. My dreams have been very full, very vivid, very frightening. I am always in charge, and I capture these men, and I do not kill them, and they escape again. What is this evil of my soul? What am I to do with it? Has it been there all along?
Evil. The destruction of our spirits, the desecration of our bodies, the blinding of our eyes. Evil... the chimney stacks of Auschwitz. That evil before which our whole society trembles and turns away. That skeleton face with eyes gone that will haunt me forever. Evil, evil, evil... the death of a soul. Evil in the choosing not to see, not to know the evil that is done by other hands. Evil in the silence and evil in too much speaking. Evil in killing, in dogmatism (of any kind), evil in the refusal to listen and understand. Evil in the giving in to manipulators, be they rich or poor. Evil in the rejection of the self. Evil in the mis-seeing of another. Evil in my heart. Evil in the grasping, greedy, frightened parts of the whole. Evil in putting away the things I wish to do in the name of confusion or lethargy. Sometimes I am dogged by evil, followed by it like a man with a shovel, and I can feel it dragging, hear it scraping behind me though I dare not turn around and look.
I am tired. Evil is insidious. And I do not begin to understand it. Is there something in the cross, beyond all voyueristic sadomasochistic ecstasies of pain, that can teach me about evil? Standing at an intersection to itself, wrapping evil in the mantle of holy blessedness? (Or blessedness in a cloak of evil?)
Since it is All Saint's Day, and I have the litany in my head:
Mary Magdaline my name-saint, pray for us,
Peter chosen patron, pray for us,
Sweet beloved John, pray for us,
searching Augustine, pray for us,
Martha, Mary, Miriam, pray for us,
Sarah, Hagar, and Rebekah, pray for us,
Felicity, Perpetua, pray for us,
and all forgotten women, pray for us.
Andrew and Michael, pray for us,
John XXIII, pray for us,
Frank, Patrick, and Jon, pray for us,
Uncle Alan and my brother, pray for us,
Jane Divo, Father Norcott, pray for us,
Judas and Shawna's mother, pray for us.
All who perished under evil hands, pray for us,
all the hands which dispatched them, pray for us,
Pilate, Johnson, Lincoln, Kennedy, pray for us,
Theresa and Julian, pray for us.
C.S. Lewis, Meister Eckhart, pray for us,
Rumi and Mohammed, pray for us,
Hallaj and the Bal Shem Tov, pray for us,
Margery and Margaret, pray for us,
Paul and John the Baptist, pray for us,
Chrysogonus and Blaise, pray for us,
Lucy, Anne and Catherine, pray for us,
Rachel and Elizabeth, pray for us.
All you holy men and women, pray for us.
All the mysteries, and the greatest mystery of all to me is me.
I still feel the surge of fire-anger-heat inside, and the prick of fear.
November has come. I am stepping into it; take my hand.
This post could be so many things. I'm waiting to see what is actually going to come out of me. Because I feel that I could be philosophical, or wildly angry, or just tired. Perhaps I'll have a shot at all of them.
First, I think, the anger. Yesterday anger was definitely my deadly sin of choice. First of all, Septa is certainly aptly named, if by Septa we wish to refer to a sort of sluggish and fetid septic system: it is irritating and it stinks, but you'd sure as hell rather it worked (in its own inimitable way) than not at all. And I DO NOT want to pay the normal amount for my transpass, and then have to pay all kinds of taxi charges and walk my legs off anyway because the train and the LUCY whatever don't actually run at the right times or take me where I want to go. But I don't know if I can keep getting up at 7 AM to get to work by 9. I mean, there were ways in which it was nice today, but I'm really tired now and it's only 10 AM, and because of the show I will have to be here for about 12 more hours. Same for the walk home- generally I like it, but sometimes I like to get home and start dinner BEFORE 8 PM. Septa: YOU DO NOT STAND UP TO THE TIGER. YOU SUCK HIPPODICK. PLEASE WORK AGAIN, OR FOR THE FIRST TIME.
Then, the CREEPY FUCKING NEIGHBORS. The CREEPY FUCKING NEIGHBORS decided to decorate their CREEPY FUCKING HOUSE for Halloween with a carefully detailed assortment of bloodied and mutilated baby dolls, complete with bloody handprints all up the front columns of the house and little nooses in the trees. Fucking gross, tasteless, creepy, and disturbing. I began to cringe from passing the damn place. But, at the same time, it is their house and they can, I suppose, decorate it as they please, whether or not I find it acceptable or pleasant. Granted, I don't actually feel this way... of course, I wanted to take all their baby dolls away and paint flowers and rainbows across their windows (in a vindictive kind of way). But I do understand what is the law of the land, and it makes sense to me. So I, while not accepting their decorations as such, was prepared to live in peace. However, I'm coming home from work... after a LONG day, with irritations that may be described hereafter... and I am hungry, and I've been walking for about an hour and forty-five minutes (see above re. Septa). And I see this crowd of people outside the CREEPY FUCKING HOUSE, having, apparently, a CREEPY FUCKING PARTY. Except at first I just thought it was a party. I even felt more kindly disposed toward them... I thought, hey, they're just having a Halloween party like everybody else, obviously they just got... carried away with the babies, and probably they are normal human beings after all. The I see this man in a creepy staring mask, walking up and down the sidewalk, dragging his shovel behind him so it scrrrrrapes all along the cement, then scrrrraping it back the other way. I don't know what the man is doing. At first I do not suppose it has reference to me. (I'm not sure why I'm switching tenses wildly in this narration, but please forgive as I do not feel like going back and making it all consistent.) Then, as I get closer, he starts following me down the sidewalk. I saw his creepy blank staring leering face entirely too close to mine, and I heard his shovel dragging and scraping along behind me even when I refused to look back, and it made me shudder and put my hand to my face, and I was sooooooooooooooooo angry at him for frightening me. I was a little electric bundle of anger and fear. Right before I went in my own building, I saw this man carrying a garbage bag coming toward me out of the shadows and my whole body tensed. It was a nice old Asian man, smiling at me as he brought out his trash! But my body did not believe.
Then Rachel came home and I gave her a violet plant and a card for our cohabitation anniversary, and we decided to go to the Indian buffet because they would have dinner ready right away and that is what we required at that time. So... back out the door, back down the street, and as we got close to the CREEPY FUCKING HOUSE I began to hear that scrape scrape scraping again and I saw the masked man was still going up and down the sidewalk. He started following close to Rachel and I as we passed, and this time we were hedged in on the other side by a man in a red demonic mask leering up at us too. The blankness of the masks was the most horrible thing about it. The fact that I could not tell where their real faces began, that they could see my whole, real face with my feelings on it and all I could see of them was leering, malevolent rubber. I felt such malice, from them and toward them. I was so hungry! I wanted to scream obscenties at them in a way I have never done. I walked a bit faster, and when I turned my head and saw the red mask right beside my face, tilted in ill-intended curiosity, it was more than I could take. I don't really know how it happened, but I felt something break inside of me and suddenly I was charging down the street away from them, not running but marching as fast as I could, getting away. I walked like this until I was halfway down the next block I was trembling deep inside with anger. Anger was all I could feel, and tension, and nerves, and a terrible boiling rage with only the lid of my skull to keep it inside me. I kept marching all the way to the restaurant. Ocassionally I felt my mouth stretch in a strange nervous/bitter parody of a smile, the social-ness of my self breaking through, the feelings breaking through in a way they knew was appropriate. But mostly... tension, anger, anger, anger, tension, fear, anger, anger, rage. This wholly hot and consuming, absorbing rage, and so much tension that I flinched when a man in a doorway lit up a cigarette, the flame flashing into its small life pulling some string inside of me. I could not calm down. I could not stop feeling it, though somehow I knew that it was my choice to feel it. How both of those things could be true I don't know. When I could finally speak I began to rant about what they had done, this harrassment, how they had no right to follow me and frighten me... and Rachel said, "They're just idiots, it's Halloween." And I heard my voice passionate and trembling, rage and tears bundled and wound up inside it, saying, "I don't care what they are, I don't care what it is." No forethought in that voice, no reason. Only pain and rage, and a sort of vocal ultimatum... I remember the feeling: They are my enemies, don't ever defend them, even with their own stupidity. The sound of my voice was... striking. Different. I stewed inside my anger, on and on, and I began to wish for it to stop. I had been imagining impossible revenges, and had taken great satisfaction in imagining stumbling upon a police car, magically stopped on a curb, waiting, and telling them that there were people harassing passers-by. But at 40th st., in front of the Fresh Grocer, I imagined killing them. It didn't just cross my mind, "I'll kill them," I imagined doing it. I imagined their fear. I imagined their pain. I imagined cutting their throats and I saw the blood. I wanted to kill them for real, and I imagined it all. And as the bloody images passed through my mind, I felt my shoulders begin to relax. I felt the tension seep out of my chest.
I had been thinking just hours before about compassion, and forgiveness, for matters so far beyond being scared and harrassed in the street. And here I was with this violent, explicit, burning anger in the heart of me. And I still feel it, when I think about what happened. In some ways I love my anger, although I refuse it often and I fear it, too. But it makes me feel more powerful, to know that it is there.
I have been thinking so much lately about evil and violence... Capote, Turtles Can Fly, The Autobiography of God... it's like I asked the universe, Evil 101, please. I've been dreaming about powerful male captives that kill and charm and break away. Captives I should perhaps kill but that I never do. My dreams have been very full, very vivid, very frightening. I am always in charge, and I capture these men, and I do not kill them, and they escape again. What is this evil of my soul? What am I to do with it? Has it been there all along?
Evil. The destruction of our spirits, the desecration of our bodies, the blinding of our eyes. Evil... the chimney stacks of Auschwitz. That evil before which our whole society trembles and turns away. That skeleton face with eyes gone that will haunt me forever. Evil, evil, evil... the death of a soul. Evil in the choosing not to see, not to know the evil that is done by other hands. Evil in the silence and evil in too much speaking. Evil in killing, in dogmatism (of any kind), evil in the refusal to listen and understand. Evil in the giving in to manipulators, be they rich or poor. Evil in the rejection of the self. Evil in the mis-seeing of another. Evil in my heart. Evil in the grasping, greedy, frightened parts of the whole. Evil in putting away the things I wish to do in the name of confusion or lethargy. Sometimes I am dogged by evil, followed by it like a man with a shovel, and I can feel it dragging, hear it scraping behind me though I dare not turn around and look.
I am tired. Evil is insidious. And I do not begin to understand it. Is there something in the cross, beyond all voyueristic sadomasochistic ecstasies of pain, that can teach me about evil? Standing at an intersection to itself, wrapping evil in the mantle of holy blessedness? (Or blessedness in a cloak of evil?)
Since it is All Saint's Day, and I have the litany in my head:
Mary Magdaline my name-saint, pray for us,
Peter chosen patron, pray for us,
Sweet beloved John, pray for us,
searching Augustine, pray for us,
Martha, Mary, Miriam, pray for us,
Sarah, Hagar, and Rebekah, pray for us,
Felicity, Perpetua, pray for us,
and all forgotten women, pray for us.
Andrew and Michael, pray for us,
John XXIII, pray for us,
Frank, Patrick, and Jon, pray for us,
Uncle Alan and my brother, pray for us,
Jane Divo, Father Norcott, pray for us,
Judas and Shawna's mother, pray for us.
All who perished under evil hands, pray for us,
all the hands which dispatched them, pray for us,
Pilate, Johnson, Lincoln, Kennedy, pray for us,
Theresa and Julian, pray for us.
C.S. Lewis, Meister Eckhart, pray for us,
Rumi and Mohammed, pray for us,
Hallaj and the Bal Shem Tov, pray for us,
Margery and Margaret, pray for us,
Paul and John the Baptist, pray for us,
Chrysogonus and Blaise, pray for us,
Lucy, Anne and Catherine, pray for us,
Rachel and Elizabeth, pray for us.
All you holy men and women, pray for us.
All the mysteries, and the greatest mystery of all to me is me.
I still feel the surge of fire-anger-heat inside, and the prick of fear.
November has come. I am stepping into it; take my hand.
Friday, August 26, 2005
One Show Left, or The Post About Everything Ever
So much... so much... SO MUCH has happened, is happening. There are so many things to say. And I'm not entirely sure why I'm writing this, except that I want contact with someone, something, and half the apartment is cavorting at a bar, one quarter of it is cavorting in the shower, and the other eighth (excepting myself), is in some sort of catatonic state on the floor.
The problem with writing after so long is that I feel an obligation to catch up, and if I tried to do that now, I would be here for the next several months.
My God, the Fringe. The Fringe, my show, the Fringe, the apartment, the Fringe. Can I just say I feel everything about it? I feel everything about it. I feel that it is going wonderfully and horribly, and I love it and hate it, and all the gradations and shades in between. I know I couldn't keep this up for that much longer, but the fact that tomorrow is our last show might also break my heart. For good reasons and bad ones. Good reasons like love and wonder and delight in what we have done, are doing, in the talent and energy and the amazing women all around me. Bad reasons like panic over Philadelphia, and fear, the terrible cankerous fear of the moment when we all are definitively split. Fear that the moment has come and gone already, and that I am singularly disposable, less-than-ardently loved.
My own need to be loved haunts me. There's very little I can say about it without cringing. It follows me like a child, like a parasite... the more I hate it, the more it grows in power.
Well, and. And I saw a wonderful show tonight. It said lots of things, some things beautiful, some difficult, some weird. It was about terrorism, I guess, but about the terrorism in our hearts, too. Some of the things it said were so much like the things I was trying to say in my play. It was extremely frightening. I loved it, although it was sometimes extremely hard to handle. I think I sort of want to talk about it, but Crista has disappeared, and Rachel hated it so much she practically fled through the streets of New York to get away from it, which was extraordinarilly irritating for those of us trying to keep up with her. (I think you got that message from me, anyway, Rachel, but if not I apologize, because I don't want to be one of those weird passive-aggressive types who vents her frustration only in a private-public forum such as this one.)
So whatever... I mean, I'm annoyed... in fact, there are lots of little annoyances adding up to a little flame of anger inside of me, though the anger is not for anyone in particular, it just... is. I think mostly I'm lonely. Which is an odd thing in an apartment full of people. Or maybe it's to be expected. Why am I so concerned with having a place? Why do I need to be loved, not just at all, but in the right amounts by the right people at the right times?
I mean... it isn't all the time, but it's enough. The strange squeezed feeling inside, and the way I click, suddenly, into some kind of tunnel vision. I want to feel important! I may as well be honest. But inside I feel greedy, and grasping, and strange, for wanting this. And I hate being angry, but at the same time I can feel myself making decisions about it. Like, going down the street after Rachel, I could feel the anger come and offer itself, I could feel the warring desires to move toward it and away... the need to stay with the depth and the open space in me from the play vs. the need to be tethered and responsive to other people's feelings. What I don't feel is the moment of decision. I just seem to slip by, from one to the other, and then it has occurred, and my distress at that fact serves mostly to entrap me the more.
What is it that would be enough? When I was walking down the street, I had a moment of clarity, and before that while sitting and watching the play. In the play it was about compassion, about the tricky, particular nature of compassion, and the simplicity of it, that it is compassion that is holy and filled with truth, and compassion that tells the truth to our hearts in the face of horror and confusion and pain. Walking down the street, I was arm in arm with Crista and I realized that connecting is what matters, connecting with whomever is beside you, with as many people as you find... that it isn't who or for how long that detirmines connection and love, but only the magic that happens, between so many people. Like that old footprints on the heart thing, I guess... but it was very powerful. It made me see that I have not lost the people I loved, that the love is real even if it is only for a little while.
But somehow I moved from that to the complete particularity of anger, self-pity, grief. Anger at being abandoned, self-pity at same, grief at losing. Perhaps I am just afraid to be alone with myself... not to tangle myself up in my feelings but simply to be with them. I don't know, but I want to tell someone, Please don't go. Please don't forget me, Please love me. I'm here, please love me enough, love me with an ardent sort of echo in your eyes. Notice all the things about me that no-one has, and tell me so that I should know.
Am I talking to a friend, many friends, a lover, someone I want? Am I talking to God? No, I don't think it's God. Am I talking to me?
Weechee-in. Help me.
At the play there was a warm certainty. You must pray, I thought to myself, you must pray, pray and be full of compassion. But when I thought of prayers, of praying, of the supplicating act, that was not it. That was not what the warm certainty was asking for. My faith is perhaps being shredded by claws. Perhaps they are divine claws, or my own. Perhaps I shall make scarves out of the tatters.
The woman in the play said that great things are seen, are built, are understood through bodies and bloodshed and seeing such things. She did not name the cross, but I thought of it. She was wrong, I know that she was wrong. Or... that's not it. She was right. But there is another way. Make eyeholes in the mask of my beliefs, let me see it, let me see.
Then there is the voice that says I am afraid to see, that I am afraid always, that I am... Well, you know all about it. My God-- just realized I've turned into Professor Dilexi. Stuck between going forward and going back, between the unknown something and the known purgatory. Limbo! Like Bingo only less singing involved.
All right. Starting to ramble now. One show tomorrow. One show left. I'm scared. I feel sort of pierced. I will see my aunt tomorrow. Why doesn't my father call me back? Why doesn't he want to see me? Well, that's another thing.
One show left, one show. I do love you, you know.
The problem with writing after so long is that I feel an obligation to catch up, and if I tried to do that now, I would be here for the next several months.
My God, the Fringe. The Fringe, my show, the Fringe, the apartment, the Fringe. Can I just say I feel everything about it? I feel everything about it. I feel that it is going wonderfully and horribly, and I love it and hate it, and all the gradations and shades in between. I know I couldn't keep this up for that much longer, but the fact that tomorrow is our last show might also break my heart. For good reasons and bad ones. Good reasons like love and wonder and delight in what we have done, are doing, in the talent and energy and the amazing women all around me. Bad reasons like panic over Philadelphia, and fear, the terrible cankerous fear of the moment when we all are definitively split. Fear that the moment has come and gone already, and that I am singularly disposable, less-than-ardently loved.
My own need to be loved haunts me. There's very little I can say about it without cringing. It follows me like a child, like a parasite... the more I hate it, the more it grows in power.
Well, and. And I saw a wonderful show tonight. It said lots of things, some things beautiful, some difficult, some weird. It was about terrorism, I guess, but about the terrorism in our hearts, too. Some of the things it said were so much like the things I was trying to say in my play. It was extremely frightening. I loved it, although it was sometimes extremely hard to handle. I think I sort of want to talk about it, but Crista has disappeared, and Rachel hated it so much she practically fled through the streets of New York to get away from it, which was extraordinarilly irritating for those of us trying to keep up with her. (I think you got that message from me, anyway, Rachel, but if not I apologize, because I don't want to be one of those weird passive-aggressive types who vents her frustration only in a private-public forum such as this one.)
So whatever... I mean, I'm annoyed... in fact, there are lots of little annoyances adding up to a little flame of anger inside of me, though the anger is not for anyone in particular, it just... is. I think mostly I'm lonely. Which is an odd thing in an apartment full of people. Or maybe it's to be expected. Why am I so concerned with having a place? Why do I need to be loved, not just at all, but in the right amounts by the right people at the right times?
I mean... it isn't all the time, but it's enough. The strange squeezed feeling inside, and the way I click, suddenly, into some kind of tunnel vision. I want to feel important! I may as well be honest. But inside I feel greedy, and grasping, and strange, for wanting this. And I hate being angry, but at the same time I can feel myself making decisions about it. Like, going down the street after Rachel, I could feel the anger come and offer itself, I could feel the warring desires to move toward it and away... the need to stay with the depth and the open space in me from the play vs. the need to be tethered and responsive to other people's feelings. What I don't feel is the moment of decision. I just seem to slip by, from one to the other, and then it has occurred, and my distress at that fact serves mostly to entrap me the more.
What is it that would be enough? When I was walking down the street, I had a moment of clarity, and before that while sitting and watching the play. In the play it was about compassion, about the tricky, particular nature of compassion, and the simplicity of it, that it is compassion that is holy and filled with truth, and compassion that tells the truth to our hearts in the face of horror and confusion and pain. Walking down the street, I was arm in arm with Crista and I realized that connecting is what matters, connecting with whomever is beside you, with as many people as you find... that it isn't who or for how long that detirmines connection and love, but only the magic that happens, between so many people. Like that old footprints on the heart thing, I guess... but it was very powerful. It made me see that I have not lost the people I loved, that the love is real even if it is only for a little while.
But somehow I moved from that to the complete particularity of anger, self-pity, grief. Anger at being abandoned, self-pity at same, grief at losing. Perhaps I am just afraid to be alone with myself... not to tangle myself up in my feelings but simply to be with them. I don't know, but I want to tell someone, Please don't go. Please don't forget me, Please love me. I'm here, please love me enough, love me with an ardent sort of echo in your eyes. Notice all the things about me that no-one has, and tell me so that I should know.
Am I talking to a friend, many friends, a lover, someone I want? Am I talking to God? No, I don't think it's God. Am I talking to me?
Weechee-in. Help me.
At the play there was a warm certainty. You must pray, I thought to myself, you must pray, pray and be full of compassion. But when I thought of prayers, of praying, of the supplicating act, that was not it. That was not what the warm certainty was asking for. My faith is perhaps being shredded by claws. Perhaps they are divine claws, or my own. Perhaps I shall make scarves out of the tatters.
The woman in the play said that great things are seen, are built, are understood through bodies and bloodshed and seeing such things. She did not name the cross, but I thought of it. She was wrong, I know that she was wrong. Or... that's not it. She was right. But there is another way. Make eyeholes in the mask of my beliefs, let me see it, let me see.
Then there is the voice that says I am afraid to see, that I am afraid always, that I am... Well, you know all about it. My God-- just realized I've turned into Professor Dilexi. Stuck between going forward and going back, between the unknown something and the known purgatory. Limbo! Like Bingo only less singing involved.
All right. Starting to ramble now. One show tomorrow. One show left. I'm scared. I feel sort of pierced. I will see my aunt tomorrow. Why doesn't my father call me back? Why doesn't he want to see me? Well, that's another thing.
One show left, one show. I do love you, you know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
