It is, I am realizing, grown deeply quiet in my head, these past few weeks.
There are roomfuls of quiet.
Oceans-wide of quiet.
No one in here, at last, but me.
Me, alone.
* * *
I could grow used to this, I keep thinking, stretching as wide as I can—and even further the quiet space extends…
When my brain finished integrating last fall—last stage in healing the mental fractures that nearly killed me, after 25 years of misdiagnosed and untreated PTSD—I came back to myself less than two weeks after an illegitimate election placed an unstable and corrupt would-be dictator in line to be the next US president. In other words, I finally knew myself in the world just as the world I knew tilted on its axis and began slipping away.
The core challenge that posed has taunted me ever since: how do I normalize this overwhelming new sense of self I am experiencing, while at the same not normalizing this overwhelming new world, filled with political chaos targeting every social principle I believe in?
As a human being, feeling at home within my mind and body is everything. Is life itself.
As a citizen, feeling at home within this burgeoning autocracy would mean death.
*
Do you ever skip around when you are trying to broach a difficult topic? Sidle up beside your point, see if you can spot it in your peripheral vision without being seen in turn?
Oh, do not ask what is it.
I wouldn’t tell you yet anyhow. Instead, I’m going to share with you the opening lines of T.S. Eliot’s early modernist poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”:
[CN: rape, self-injury]
“Survivors understand full well that the natural human response to horrible events is to put them out of mind. They may have done this themselves in the past. Survivors also understand that those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. It is for this reason that public truth-telling is the common denominator of all social action.”
–Judith Herman, Trauma and Recovery
◊
In a dream, I come across a toad in the woods. Squat, warty, with flat blank eyes. He belches up a stone that clatters over my feet. A ruby, I recognize when I bend over to look: big as my fist and red as death. I reach out to pick it up, to pop it into my mouth for safe-keeping, and grab the toad instead. I do not realize my mistake until I feel the toad sitting belligerent on my tongue, plumping up his blotchy abdomen to fill the space from my lips to my throat. When I look back for the ruby, it is already gone.
I wake up choking.
* * * * *
Most of the photos I have from my childhood live in a large document box, clustered together chronologically in clearly-labeled archival folders. My mother—trained historian and daughter of a news-photographer—made just such a careful box for each of us during the years after my grandfather’s death, merging countless stacks of inherited photos with her own files as she worked to organize his legacy. An inch into the box, in a folder simply labeled “GRADE 2,” one finds not photographs but a carbon-copy report typed onto two sheets of onion skin paper, preprinted with the words: CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION.
I remember this report, even though I’d never read it until recently. Or, more precisely, I remember taking the tests that led to it.
And I remember Mr. Morley.
Y’know the fable about that boy who grabs a fist of nuts out the bottom of a narrow-necked jar and can’t get his hand back out? And then boy-o stands there like a putz, cuz he doesn’t wanna let go his booty—or refuses to realize if he lets some nuts go, he can pull a few others out and actually eat ’em?
Yup, that’s the one. You got it.
This story?
Is not that story.
Offer me a jarful of nuts, I won’t just turn ’em down; I’ll gnaw my hand clear off while you watch. I know it’s a trap you’re holding, even if you’re still kidding even yourself on that score.
Don’t bother pointing out the gaping abyss in logic here.
I’ll take your finger too, in a single bite, and t’hell makes you think I haven’t seen your logic myself already?
* * *
“The heart I hold tightly within my chest, tightly holds me back.”
Three years ago today, I wrote these words. They became the title of what I consider this blog’s first true post: a manifesto defying the “Woman, be silent!” command I felt from culture and intimates alike, and claiming instead my right to stand in the middle of my own life and speak my own truths.
A tiny piece—less than 200 words in total—and the first appearance of real voice on my page in more years than I care to recall. “I finally wrote in my own voice!” I exclaimed to my therapist in a session that afternoon.
I was hella excited, to say the least.
[THEN:] “The art and the work and the words I am here to do have been buried by the aggressions of men. By the bodies of men. By the silencings of men. By the refusal of their eyes to see, and their ears to hear. By my own belief that had I only asked politely, respectfully, with clarity of vision and specificity of language: only then I would have received the gatekeeper’s permission.
“Only then would it be proper and permissible for me to seize my own heart and dance myself to exuberant annihilation upon the beaches of my own dreams, that heart clutched tight within my ribs, its steady thumping the pulse to which my feet move.”
Heart and bone. Silence and speech. The body in motion, and the bodies in gender.
Images and themes that have haunted my writing since forever ago yet dissolved into nothingness over time, given away with so much else in desperate exchange for another few years of constricted existence. Sacrificed to whatever vindictive god I felt pursuing me, his breath always hot and far too close upon my neck.
Last year I had the opening words embossed on a ring that I now wear like wedding jewelry, a constant visual reminder of my commitment and primary allegiance: self to self, soul to heart, present and past holding hands as I step (together as one) into the future.
Continue reading “In the Boneyard, Too, Bright Flowers Bloom”
[CN: sexual assault, incest]
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before:
Once upon a time, a beautiful maiden in possession of all her limbs [so every version of the Armless Maiden begins] lived in the forest with her father the woodsman and her mother, the woodsman’s wife. [Or sometimes her mother is already dead, depends on which version you choose to retell.] The woodsman is seized with sexual desire for his beautiful daughter—or perhaps greedy desire to trade her to the devil for wealth—or perhaps marital desire to replace his dead wife with similar product already close-to-hand and convenient.
[Such surface details of a father’s lust often shift, the critics agree, while leaving the underlying incest motif intact.]
Angered at her strong rejection of his plans, the woodsman chops off his daughter’s hands with an ax. [Just above the wrist, or a bit below the elbow, or let’s say he takes the whole arm—at this point, you really wanna quibble details with me??] He may even demand that she cleaver them off herself [though I am fuzzy on the mechanics of how this would be done]. She flees from him into the woods, to eat fruit from the ground where it has fallen and, in general, to survive like a brutish animal.
Now, since this is a fairy tale, you and I both know what’s coming: a handsome prince, true love, and marriage. [Still that tricky “look, ma! no hands!” issue, though. Happily ever after is harder with a princess who can’t hug her spouse, care for their babies, or even wipe herself after a late-night visit to the chamber pot.] So the story hiccups into a second half, during which our handless heroine flees back into the woods, communes with herself and with nature for a number of years, and becomes such an overall loving spirit, inside and out, that her arms and hands grow back entirely.
At which point, the Armless Maiden—armless no long—reunites with her love, scoops up their baby [grown surly preteen, no doubt, in her absence], and takes over all the housework, allowing everyone to Happily ever after, for ever after…
Do you know this story? Have you come across it elsewhere? Can you perhaps then explain to me, because I really don’t understand, why our heroine comes back to herself all sweetness and light and not, for example, royally fcking pissed the fcking-fck off?
Me, I think I might pick up the first ax my new hands could carry and go hunting myself a woodsman.
[Or maybe I just like to think I might.]
[Me being me, I’m much more likely to pick up the first available pen.]
[Which is another way of saying: I’ve been having a lot of trouble figuring out how I want to write today’s post.]
Continue reading “A Father’s Daughter’s Hand Firmly Grips the Pen”
A Pox on the Patriarchy
WRITER AND PHOTOGRAPHER
a writing quest
(give or take a few)
Be Loud. Be Brave. Be You.
Ponder(verb) to weigh in the mind; to view with deliberation; to examine carefully; to consider attentively
It was all fun and games, until the fisticuffs and shenanigans... -Deutschmarc
the life of a flamboyant accountant
Cats are my patronus. A clowder of cats.
Learning to navigate through my post-work world
An Arts-Filled And Tasty Jaunt Through Life
Here and now, with all of it.
The website of Luther M. Siler, Author/Editor/Curmudgeon
All about Poetry: Sublime, Ridiculous, Useful
Rescuing what might remain of the grey matter.
Fairy Tales and Poetry Celebrating Magic and Nature for Kids of all Ages
Anything and Everything, but mostly Poetry
