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Thursday, July 26th, 2007
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We make mistakes.
Every day.
Sometimes when we wake up, we get up off the wrong side of the bed. Later, as someone tries to show that they care, by making life a little easier, or saying something wonderful... we snap at them.
The start of a bad day, can turn into a bad week. A month. A year. A bad life. And it’s all a mistake, because we didn’t know it was going to turn out like this. Our one bad moment blinds us from knowing what we are doing is so wrong. And the wrong keeps coming. Breaking up all that there is to love about life.
We make mistakes when we can’t recognize our faults.
We make mistakes when we can’t stop making the same mistake, because it’s the easy option and at least the results are familiar.
But familiarity with mistakes is the biggest error. Addiction to making mistakes. Thinking that someone will have to love us anyway. And things will turn out right.
No one has to love any one of us. Especially when we don’t work hard to make sure things turn out right... for ourselves... for everyone around us. For everyone.
We make too many mistakes.
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| Time: | 12:10 am. |
| Mood: |  scared. | | Music: | Blue Train. |
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There are few things as humiliating as being reminded in the middle of class how low you really feel about life.
In psychology we had to fill out a worksheet identifying elements of stress and coping. To make it easier to understand the definitions the first half of the sheet asked us to explain how we dealt with stress. Not just how we dealt with it but how stress does things to our bodies. Ways of coping that we have no control of. I was really embarrassed. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look. A sheet filled with my ways.
I stared at it a while before I started talking to my classmates and asked what they had put down. Eating. Watching TV. Calling a friend. Going for a jog.
For a moment I thought, “They’re just trying to fill it out generically.”
But then I got really uncomfortable and started to think, “No, Naomi. That is actually how other people deal with their stress. They don’t scratch their skin open in their sleep. They don’t stay up all night in their rooms staring at their reflection and saying mean things to themselves. They don’t. That’s just you. They don’t let their stress take them down to depression. They fucking do something.”
So I tried to fill it out they way I should. Eating. Watching TV. I mean I have been doing a lot of that lately. Write, though I haven’t been doing as much as I should of that. Doing yoga, which I do and I guess it’s for stress. That’s why I started doing it. I think now I just do it out of habit, and to stretch out before pilates. Which I don’t do enough of. I fill it out trying not to say what I really do.
Destroy myself. When I am stressed out I destroy myself. My body rejects my soul. My soul blames my heart. My heart doesn’t want to work. And why am I stressed out? Because. Everything. Falls. Apart. On me. Around me. It just starts to crumble and I scramble to pick up the bits, and then... the pasting and piecing back together leaves me a thinking, “Is this what it really looked like? This life of mine that I am so desperate to repair? Is THIS what it looks like. It’s horrible. It doesn’t look like anything I really want to save.” So I sit down and let it happen.
I get to thinking the sad and scary thoughts. I get to hating my past. Hating the people that hurt me. Hating myself for trusting them. Because I’m stupid. I am so utterly stupid.
For the second half of the work sheet we had to define our ways by the text books definitions of coping.
I have no grasp on “problem-focused coping”. I mean I try to. For instance when I realize a friendship is in danger, I try to talk to the other person about it. And his/her response is something like, “No. I don’t want to talk to you. I am going to avoid you.” Well, it’s hard to focus cope with a problem with the other half of the problem is being a royal bitch or son there of.
“Emotion focused coping” is beyond me. Ok, so I’m stressed out. I’m just going to feel another way about it. I don’t care. I’m not stressed. But the homework keeps piling up on me. The laundry isn’t getting done. The books are piling on my desk. The longer I wait to say, “This really fucking bothers me” the harder it is to get anyone to listen.
And no one wants to listen. Because there was a time where I dealt is stress the same way I dealt with my depression. I’d let it have its way with me. I’m older and wiser. I know that I can’t say what I want, do what I want. Whatever it is that has to happen to make whatever it is on the insides of me go out and be away from me.
I think back on how reckless I was with my emotions. How I acted out so much, just to use up all the energy and be done with it.
Now all of that is stuck under my skin. I won’t let it out. I won’t even let myself have a good cry. It used to start with the crying. If I start crying then I risk turning into that... thing of me that isn’t me. It’s just anger and hurt and it acts so stupid. It’s as worthless as it feels.
I feel a bout of crying coming on and I swallow it up. Now I have an ocean of tears roaring through me, drowning me. The stresses are fishes nibbling at my frozen toes and fingers. Globbing their mouths at mine, blue lipped and wordless. Living without air and I want to be there with them. Living without air. But I know that I can’t live like the fish I’m afraid of. So it’s one or the other. If I live, I live. But if I let the water take me I don’t do what it is that you have to do to live. Breathe. There’s enough of tear ocean to take my under. Enough to cover me, and keep me down far enough that there will be no chance at swimming to the surface and taking that gasp of regret.
I feel the anxiety attacks and I refuse to let them put me on the floor. I refuse to press myself to the floor and let the weight of fright push and push and push. But when I deny them their right, the right over me that they have claimed regularly over the years... they whip my spine. Attack my back. Pound my muscles into stone. My lungs get so miserably vacant. They knock the desire to breathe out of me and I face the ocean all over again. My heart sinks and it will anchor me at the bottom. My guts all chained together drag down with my heart. My stomach, empty as it is, sinks too.
I feel it all inside and I won’t let it out. No way.
People don’t know what it’s like to be stuck inside me. No one has ever known what it’s like to be stuck inside me. And that’s my curse. You die if you get stuck inside me. I’ll kill you. And everyone knows it. They fucking exploit that trait of me.
Sometimes I’m afraid that I will die inside me. Lately I know that I already am. I know that I kill what gets stuck inside me. And I’m stuck there.
I am afraid of those words. True words. My fancy way of saying that my brain is bogged with thoughts of...
Tonight I smoke a Djarum and try to drum it into my head. Be. Breathe. Be. Breathe. Naomi can’t sleep with the fishes. She looks bad in blue and green. She made a promise. If she’s good for anything it is that one promise. She made it to herself in memory of everyone that couldn’t make that promise.
I need help. But no one wants to hear me say it. So I wrote it.
And I’m starting it right now. They say the only person that can help you is yourself. They are fucking liars. Because sometimes you have to say it. Then you have to mean it. Then you have to start it. And then you need a hand. I don’t care what “they” fucking say. Sometimes you DO get so low that you need someone to see you can’t swim anymore. You need someone to remember that you didn’t know how to swim when you started drowning. You NEED someone to realize that you learned just so you could stay afloat long enough for them to throw you a rope.
Sometimes some people need a rescue team. It’s hard to syphon a sea out of you when you’re alone. It’s hard to stay warm, when the only bodies around you are cold and scaly, and they scare you.
But to show that I know I hope I can do this on my own if I have to.... may as well end it with a smile.
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Saturday, March 24th, 2007
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Mu is sitting right next to the lap top as I write this.
Mother Wort is in my belly.
Listening to Death Cab for Cutie.
Picking up a shift at work today.
I’m trying to identify why I’m not writing lately. I have a lot to say. But I think I’m at a point where I don’t want to say it because... honesty gets me half as many places as silence. And lies get me twice as far as silence. Everything moves at a slow pace in my life.
But sudden events are what really break my legs. I’m forced to travel anyway. If I stay right
here....
something stupid will happen anyway.
I’m not half the traitor she pretends me to be. But I’m two times better than she pretends to be.
Who knew losing this much would be this enlightening? Fuck Buddha.
I have to be cryptic because I’m not ready for the full blown impact of honesty.
But honestly... I don’t know why I should feel bad because everyone else likes to lie to themselves more often they I’ve lied to them.
Everyone is willing to accept internal deceit.
To be honest... some people I know aren’t worth the skin their DNA is printed on.
One day, I’ll stop caring enough to laugh at them as much as they glare at me.
Glorious day that’ll be.
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Thursday, March 15th, 2007
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If there is a God, tell him to get me out of here.
It started innocently enough. I went to class, Bible as Literature with the BRILLIANT Professor Wiget.
Term. “Son of God” meant to exemplify the divinity and power of God (Yaweh) in comparison to his flawed creation of mankind. Often read as a term of endearment towards mankind.
Review the musicality of the way Psalms were composed.
Hallel- praise.
+Ya- God.
=Hallelujah- Praise God.
Many of us have an “Ohhhhhhhhh” moment. Language math.
I dig.
Moving right along to... Song of Songs.
I can’t do this. I whisper to the classmate next to me, “I’m too single to have to listen to this.”
We are meant to identify the allegory. Husband and wife to God and Israel (not the location but the conecept of God’s chosen people).
But all I see is poetry. Romance. A not so obvious hint of eroticism. Not so obvious because we, western civilization, are conditioned to not create an association between God (religion/ spirituality) and sex (bodily behavior).
Read on my loves. At my poor minds wandering.
Song of Songs
1:2 “May he smother me with kisses.” (I’m trying to recall the last time I was kissed in a smothering way.)
1:4 “Take me with you, let us make haste; bring me into your chamber, O king.” (Note- not capitalized King. I think of all the times I’ve pleaded to “make haste” towards a chamber.)
4: 3 “Your lips are like a scarlet threat and your mouth is lovely’ your parted lips behind your veil are like a pomegranate cut open.” (Lips. Lips. Lips. I need to be kissed. Kissed. Kissed.)
4:10 “How beautiful are your breasts, my sister and bride.” (Did he just tell her “nice rack”?)
5:6 “I opened to my love, but my love ahd turned away and was gone’ my heart sank when he turned his back. I sought him, but could not find him, I called but there was no answer.” (And I’m sitting there in a class where I never look to one side of the room because there sits red and puffy faced an old mistake of love and I want to cry for the loss that didn’t mean anything and laugh that once I would lament the loss of such a stupid stupid stupid love! I think of the masculine backs that have turned in my life. I think about the seeking and calling and the empty air when I wait for replies.)
Chapter 7. Don’t get me started on 7. I mean it all seems pretty silly to us now. A woman’s body parts compared to goblets, wheat, lilies, fawns, ivory, camels. But back than its like... that’s like being compared to roses and summer’s days and the sun in the east. And I want it. I want those overtures of being a Honey Red. The last chance at love. The power of the ocean. I miss the sound of my name on his lips. Naomi suddenly meaning without saying it... something like...
Being called “daughter of delights!”. Oh God. I’m thinking of the passionate utterances made in the past. The low voices with praise and adoration. All during the most delectable moments of passion. Love.
8:3 “His left arm pillows my head, his right arm is round me.” (More moments. Embraces. Not even sexual ones. The quiet ones. Reading. Listening to music. Falling asleep. Warmth. Warmth. Warmth!)
We move on to the poetic tradition of the Egyptians. Specifically the wasf.
Term- Wasf- Egyptian love song in praise of the beloved.
Oh and now I’m thinking about my lost Sebastian. Dark eyes. Skin that isn’t white. That olive tone, deliciously warm and his scent. My nostrils flare, anticipating the tendrils of wonderful scent. Just at the thought of him. But he is not there. No longer there.
I notice that I am scratching my neck. I have a sudden urge to touch and be touched.
And it’s not Sebastian’s scent I identify in the cool air of the room. I find another haunting one. And I know I’m not near enough to really be smelling it, but I’d woken up from dreams... I’ve spent enough time in the presence of it... that I can conjure it. Pluck it from memory and my body tricks itself into pretending that it is there. A cheap replication of something I have taught myself to despise.
I am so uncomfortable and miserable.
Lebanon reference from Song of Songs and I think of “Broken Wings” and I hate that I want love. I hate it. I hate love. I hate that I feel a need for it.
I can barely think as we move on to the Book of Job. Only enough thought to smirk at the introduction of The Satan. Adversary against man and not God. Not yet. I smirk at the idea of him. I think of “Murder Mysteries” and again fall back into the memories of being in bed, reading...
With one warm arm round me and another pillowing my head. A stack of graphic novels at the bed side.
I hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
If I were faithfully cruel I would plead with God to curse the first male blood of Egyptians again. I would beg to know why the wicked are rewarded with companionship and I am left alone.
And God would tell me that I am a poor excuse for a woman. Some discussion about suffering for my sins.
I tell you, I never sinned alone. Not once.
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Tuesday, March 13th, 2007
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PROMPT 112
Idols
Idols made of sun
thirst for blood.
Idols made of bone
ache to pierce.
Idol image animals
point out the bite we have yet left in our fancy superior selves.
Idols of imagination.
As we claim to be the height of science.
We create idols.
In an old space of history.
We served.
Now.
We march forward without
thirst and ache for mythology.
I feel parched, sore.
And alone.
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Wednesday, February 28th, 2007
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The air smelled cold.
Tonight a new spring wind howled against the remnants of winter.
It’s protest only carried the last message of winter through the streets and into my bones.
During the day the sun kissed the southwest with promises of warmth.
But as the sun declined to a whisper
the cold
came.
Winter grinned over us again. But in hours the sun will beat back the chill, and soon the battle
will be
done.
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Tuesday, February 13th, 2007
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Click the above link to read the V-Day mission.
Why Valentines day? In my opinion? While most of the world is embracing this holiday, a fun excuse to give and get from your loved one... there are women in the world who do not have a loved one. They do not have a person in their life that treasures them. In fact many of these women have people in their lives that can only offer cruelty and violence. Physical. Mental. Spiritual. Violence.
V-Day has an agenda and a request. Do not simply embrace your personal loved ones on Valentines Day. Embrace the world of women. Keep them in mind. You wouldn’t want your loved ones to be hurt. Why is it OK to forget the millions of women who are being hurt in the world?
Valentines is for you loved ones. V-Day is for those who aren’t lucky enough to have your personal love in their lives.
February 14th is a dual action love fest.
Don’t fucking miss it.
Make hearts whole. Come see the Vagina Monologues and help raise money and awareness.
It’s not about this ONE night to be concerned about vaginas. Of course your support and concern should be an EVERY DAY THING. It’s about one EXCUSE to support them. To openly attend an event and send out a message. You are not the only one that’s worried about women. You are not the only one that wants to help. WE are not alone in wanting to make the world a better place. WE ARE GOING TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE.
Hopefully watching the play will get you thinking. And you’ll think, “I should help women every day.”
I know that’s exactly what the Vagina Monologues have done for me.
Love for you all.
Naomi
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Thursday, January 18th, 2007
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Are you not a NMSU VAGINAS friend yet?
Why not?
Do you hate vaginas?
They don’t hate you. They don’t hate anyone.
Do they gross you out?
I bet sometimes you gross them out too. They still like you though.
NMSU VAGINAS have a pretty red and pink page. We used to have an awesome vagina-a-licious background to our page.... but it was deemed too “rated” to use. Maybe TOM hates vaginas?
We have an awesome profile picture that photo-bucket refuses to host (I recently discovered). Tres scandal! If you’re our friend you’ll be the first to know about dates for events, fund-raisers, and such. You’ll be the first to get all the fresh Vagina news!
Right now you are the second to get the fresh vagina news. That’s not as fresh as first.
In matters of the vagina, you know, fresh and first is favored.
What can it hurt? How long can it take? Why wouldn’t you want to click on a few links?
Click. Click. Click. Click rhymes with flick.
Flicking off is what I call masturbating.
Bring yourself some self pleasure, and get yourself a Vagina friend.
Don’t be lazy! Vaginas are hard working friends.
They bring all the babies into the world.
Do you hate babies? Maybe that’s why you’re not a Vagina friend yet. You hate babies.
You were a baby once. You came out of a vagina. I bet you were a cute baby. I bet when you were a teenager you never stopped to thank your mom for letting you crash in her body. Sacrifice nine months of typical biological comfort just so you could grown inside of her. I bet you never asked for forgiveness for being a breech. Or for making her heart race until she thought it would pop. I bet you never said you were sorry for making her cry more than.... as deeply as she ever has... in her entire life.
And if you did... you know your mom said something like, “Oh that’s all right. It was worth it.” Unless mom hasn’t been having a good day or you’ve been particularly bad. In which case she’ll say something like, “You know I used to have a figure. I used to have BOOBS! And nice thighs! And a tiny waist!” At that point... well... I think you should go get mom some flowers and do the dishes.
Maybe you were actually hatched from an egg. Or brought by the stork. Or you tumbled out of a cabbage. Maybe that’s why you don’t like vaginas. Maybe you are from another planet where all the men give birth from their sexual organ which looks NOTHING like a vagina but operates on the same level.
But I bet on the other planet, the women and men of the world don’t go around mutilating and hurting the men parts that give birth to babies.
Maybe they do. Maybe horrible things happen to alien men parts that are capable of birthing babies.
In which case... why aren’t you a VAGINA friend yet?
Bad things are happening to good vaginas (and possibly alien men sex organs that work like vaginas).
Won’t you just be a friend, so you can find out first about what good you can do for vaginas (on this planet).
Love always,
Naomi (who wants to help create intergalactic peace and safety for all sexual organs)
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Thursday, January 11th, 2007
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Awesome News everybody!
Well, we worked on it for quite some time and now I am happy to announce....
The birth of the NMSU Vaginas MySpace Profile! Feel free to friend us. Vaginas are pretty easy to get along with when you’re good to them. Actually friendships with vaginas are incredibly rewarding when you treat them right.
And be sure to post a link to the V-Day web site, where everyone can learn on how to make the world a safer place for women.
Show your support!
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Tuesday, January 9th, 2007
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If you could read my mind...
I would still lie to your face about -
what I did
what I want
what I think.
You wouldn’t trust the truth,
even if you could read my mind,
because I have lied to you.
And I wouldn’t trust that you could understand why I lied.
Because you’ve never trusted my honesty either.
If you could read my mind,
you would know how much honesty I have to offer.
And you’d feel terrible about not trusting my honesty when it could have helped everything.
I would never speak the truth again. Not to you.
I would lie to you all the time.
Just as often as you think I lie.
But underneath, you’d hear all the truths.
I don’t love you anymore.
You won’t know if that’s my voice lying,
Or my mind telling the truth.
I think that’s what you deserve.
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Friday, January 5th, 2007
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| Time: | 1:35 am. |
| Mood: |  sad. |
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Can’t sleep again.
I stayed home while Kelsey and Amanda went to Carl’s birthday party.
I tried to read, but I was too... sad... angry. Bad things I don’t want associated with my new Murakami book.
I tried to sleep, but John was texting. He was trying to cheer me up, and did a bit of a decent job. John’s very funny. He and I always have great text. We also have great conversations. And great dancing, I really wish someone had caught that on camera. It was weird, though. I never thought when I first met John that some day he’d cheer me up as often as he has. He’s a good person as far as I can tell. I like that. I discovered a good person. That makes me feel ok.
Because right now I feel surrounded by not so good people. That makes me feel bad. I have some how managed to turn my closest friends against me. I have to accept full responsibility. If I were just easier to love, and made less of a mess of my own life they’d be able to... be nice. I think.
It’s a theory. And like most of my theories it gets stuck in developmental phase. Eventually I have to abandon the thought all together, because people don’t really like my theories.
I think it has a lot to do with people not liking me.
I hate feeling this sorry for myself. I hate being this angry with people that I care about. I hate feeling like... I’m being... removed.
I am my social circle’s cancerous loud mouthed growth. And they’re done sick of taking the risk of my aura spreading. Cut me out.
Ugh.
I got Carl a pressie and gave it to him when we took him out for coffee.
He got-
A Transformers (Optimus Prime!) Birthday card. With a crack at his age. The big three oh is next year!
Then I found a little Lego set. I was, at that point, inspired to get him a bag o pressie stuff that you might get a little boy. You know, something young for Carl when he’s getting older.
So after that I got him a set of CRAYOLA crayons (I sprang for the real deal)
and a Pirates coloring book.
Mini Snickers.
He seemed to really like it when I gave it to him. I asked him to color a page from the book so I could put it up on the fridge. I have a Carl colored parrot magnet-ed up on my fridge now. I wish I’d had the camera, because he looked very young when he was coloring. I used my camera on my phone. But I always forget to load those on line. I’ll have to remember to do that tomorrow.
Enough feeling bummed out that I missed Carl’s celebration.
Prompt time!
I believe in...
Dancing until my body wants to drop... and dancing anyway.
Breaking my heart until the beating stops and I never have to love again.
The ability for terrible people to become good people.
But I know...
There isn’t always room on the dance floor for me.
You can love after the heart has gone dead.
And that good people can turn into monsters if they want.
These prompts are actually working out really well for me. So... I'm glad. For me.
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Thursday, January 4th, 2007
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| Time: | 6:07 am. |
| Mood: | melancholy. |
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It’s four something in the morning. I can’t sleep.
I’m upset and trying not to be pissed off, which just makes me more upset. Life would be great if I could just be angry and tell someone... a few people off. But the last time I let my anger slip is the reason why I’m in this position in the first place.
People are showing true shades of vile right now. Color my current social situation Fucked Up.
It’s basically up to me to pay for the mistakes of two people (Nathaniel and I)... again. Way to change it up right?
I never said I didn’t take the first swing. But I will say the son of a bitch took it too far when he wrapped his hands around my neck.
And it wouldn’t have happened if he would just leave me the fuck alone when I say, “Leave me alone.” But he doesn’t, he’s spent four years pushing my buttons, boiling my blood, crawling under my skin.... why stop now?
I’m not supposed to make this about me. It’s Carl’s birthday, and it’s been decided that it’d be better if I didn’t come or left before Nathan got there. Thus removing myself from a party where *I* am the only one that could *possibly* cause ANY drama. Leaving to go home, alone, while all of my friends party on to celebrate the birth of The Carl.
I’m sorry. But it’s unfair. It’s fucked up. It’s fucked up that I offered from the start to not go. It’s fucked up that I was told it wouldn’t be a problem. That it would be a good thing for me to go. It was fucked up for me to get all excited about going to a party with a bunch of my friends there, where we can actually hang out, enjoy each other, play games and be silly. It was fucked up when it was casually brought up that I would be an element of... oogie.
I give my friends the oogie. No one gets the oogie when someone hurts me, or violates my space, or mentality... PHYSICALITY of comfort.
You know why I’m on a violent edge with the fucker? Because he threw a damn mug at my head. I’ve been on pins and needles ever since. And I asked him to go away the other night, because I knew that I have a desire to hurt him. Physically hurt him. Scare the fuck out of him like he scared me. Hurt him, bruise him, cut him, strangle him... so he can feel as weak and stupid and helpless as I did.
And when it boiled over, I wasn’t strong enough and I only managed to get strangled, and pinned, and scraped up and bruised all over again.
But no one is offended. No one gives a flying rats ass that they have named the person that did that to me friend, and they won’t take one bit of time to... I don’t know... tell him he was wrong.
I start rehearsal for the Vagina Monologues in a few days. I can’t go over my lines. I feel like... a weak beat sheep in lionesses clothing. What fucking right do I fucking have to try and represent and convey this fucking message. Me, with scrape marks on my back and legs. Me with a sore neck and a softened voice. What fucking right do I fucking have?
And then we have the element of “You’re not the victim, Naomi. I am for having to make this choice in asking you to not be around my friend Nathan.”
God, it’s ging to be like this when it’s Nat’s birthday pretty soon. She’s going to be going out to Dedo on a Friday, and I wont’ get to go. She won’t want me there, because well... it’s like... an entire social circle against one friend, that’s she’s not even sure she wants anymore.
But I figured that was only going to happen at Dedo. Nope. It’s here in LC house parties too.
It’s a bummer to know that my friends are put in this position. But honestly, I have my own wounded... it’s not even my ego. It’s my whole heart... I have that to take care of.
It’s just fucked up, and I don’t like a lot of people right now. I don’t like myself.
The stupid prompt for the day....
When I leave....
All tomorrow’s parties
It won’t be a problem.
When I leave
there will be a sigh of relief
Because all I bring is drama.
When I leave, I’ll know that I’d wished I’d never come.
When I leave, I’ll leave the half that helped me come undone.
Someday, when I leave,
I won’t bother to come back.
And even then, when I leave,
people still won’t face the facts.
When I leave,
I’ll walk away
and know I was in the right.
When I leave,
I’ll run away,
because I’m tired of this fight.
When I leave,
I won’t say,
where it is I’d like to go.
When I leave,
I’m hiding,
and I’ll try not to feel low.
Someday when I leave,
I won’t bother to come back.
One day, after I leave....
They’ll figure out what their lives lack
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Wednesday, January 3rd, 2007
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Tuesday, January 2nd, 2007
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Today is a new year.
I’ve really lost touch with my writing in the past year... or two. There is a difference between blogging a bit as I have been in that time, and the journaling that I used to do regularly. It has been very touch and go with my poetry. Disappointingly so. Devastating actually. It’s murder in my mind when I think back on how much I used to write.
I became wrapped up in aspects of my life that stunted the growth of my writerly self.
I was drinking from a poisonous well, as my friend Mr. Baily pointed out this morning. He pointed out many things, that I have thought about in my head but I’ve never said out loud. And, of course, none of my friends have said to me. Something about hearing it makes it more of a reality. Something about hearing it from another person makes it more of a terrifying reality that I have to change.
A poisonous well feeds a variety of my thirsts. My thirst for love, friendship, acceptance, success. These are not evil desires. But over time, each of them has been tainted. Corrupted. Manipulated. Malformed.
Last night He has his hands around my throat, pressed up against a wall. My neck is still sore, and it hurts to swallow. I’ve never had anyone choke me so hard. I could not get any air. Not even through my nose.
I asked him to go away, and he would not. I lost my temper and I took a swing at him. He still would not go away. I want him out of my life, but he’s threaded himself into it somehow. He’s tangled up in my friends. He has this charisma, some wicked charm, and when he is bad he makes it so you have to forgive him or ignore it. And he was very bad to me last night, so utterly horrible and violent and it was not the first time... and no one will tell him he was wrong. I don’t even think that he thinks in his head it was wrong.
He texted me and said, “I have to ask and I hope the cold has sobered you up a little. Why did you attack me when all I wanted to do was help Carl.”
I didn’t ask him why he choked me, or hit me or shoved me so hard I fell to the ground and knocked a lump into my head and I saw stars. I didn’t ask him why he didn’t go away when I asked him to, because I knew... I KNEW that something bad would happen. I didn’t ask him why he said the things he said, or played it off like it was all me.
The lump in my throat has been there since he had his hands there. It will not go away.
It was wrong of me to act the way I did. But I’m so tired of running from him. I’m tired of having to leave the room. I’m tired of having to look at him. I’m tired... of remembering that I loved him once. It makes me sick.
It makes me doubt the functionality of my heart. It makes me doubt myself, to know that once I was so naive. It makes me hate myself. I hate myself for ever loving him. I hate myself for ever letting my need to protect him dictate the choices I made. I hate myself because I wanted those babies. And I hate myself most because now, after everything, I have to be glad that they are gone because I would have been shamed to point to him and name him the father of my children. I hate myself because my heart has been twisted to that point over the years.
Why did I attack him? I want him out of my life. I don’t want to go back and never meet him, but I do want my future purified. I don’t want anymore Him memories, moments... mistakes.
Natalya is upset with me, again. Carl probably doesn’t remember any of what happened. He was right there, next to me, when His terrible stubby hands, the same size as my own, were wrapped around my neck.
Why is he never held accountable?
I can’t dwell on it. I shouldn’t even think about it. But these are my thoughts for this moment in my life, and I have to start writing those thoughts down again.
I never should have stopped.
Sebastian is being cold and indifferent towards me in the past few days. He’s had a lot of things to get done. I’m having a little bit of a hard time dealing with it, because in the weeks before he’s been so kind. He’s been needing me.
I don’t know why I still let him pretend as if he loves me. I know that he doesn’t. Can’t. If I let this go on I’ll just be creating an opportunity for a man I love to turn in to someone that I’ll easily hate.
I’m love sick for him. Once upon a time it was the good illness that indicated developing emotions. Feelings of compassion and respect. Now it is another sickness. One that I don’t have to suffer if I can manage to be completely honest with myself and take the emotional hit of yet another failed relationship.
It was doomed from the start.
I’ve found a LJ Community that might help me with the picking up my writing again.
Hurah for them.
Day one of writing every day again.
He crunched forlornly through the snow...
Millions of microscopic ice canvases under his boots.
Fate had called for the sun to take the life of natural art.
He changed everything when he walked away.
Somewhere an Ice God is angry.
And a Sun God cries.
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Sunday, December 31st, 2006
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It's because I picked a lot of red focused images. Even I know enough psychology to know that.
We will always be the stuff of funny. Our Humor-fu beats all funny-fu through out the land. The art of our fu is international, bitches. You can't fight it. Submit.
killing joy says:
i forgot what the time change is like, but happy new years!
dark world girl says:
I'm in your future right now.
dark world girl says:
It's the far, far off year of 2007.
dark world girl says:
we have hover cars.
dark world girl says:
at long last! We have fuckin' HOVER CARS!
killing joy says:
we do? i want one!
dark world girl says:
You'll have to wait until 2007 your time, I think
killing joy says:
curses.
dark world girl says:
I'm not allowed to alter the course of history.
killing joy says:
but i need a ride to the bar! i bet hover cars are easier for drunks to handle.
dark world girl says:
They're easier over potholes.
killing joy says:
and then when you almost hit people you just actually hoover over them instead
dark world girl says:
Exactly!
killing joy says:
i bet even i could drive one sober!
dark world girl says:
It'd be the most bitchin' ride ever.
killing joy says:
yeah. then all the girls would want me.
dark world girl says:
all the dudes would be so jealous.
killing joy says:
i'd be all "ladies ladies ladies, come into my hover car... of luuuuuuuuuuuuv!" and then they'd throw their expenseive panties at me.
P.S
Akemashite Omedeto Gozaimasu. That means Happy New Years!
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Wednesday, December 13th, 2006
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(my final project in film theory was to write a dictionary of film theory terms. at least 30 of them. i wrote about 45. this is the intro to the paper)
It is not typical to start a dictionary with an introduction. The status of dictionary is one of organization, information and education. Each dictionary dictates that it is merely a collection of words and their meaning. Its first few pages are guides, abbreviation and pronunciation keys. It is a formal book but overlooked as common. Or Dull. We do not recognize the potential of a dictionary.
In a popular 1980's film, Say Anything, a young man browses through the dictionary of his over achieving girlfriend to find it riddled with marks. She explains she marks the words she has looked up. The amount of marks is intimidating. To this day some viewers judge her as a person who perhaps has too much time on her hands.
Many are more likely to pick up a dictionary to defend a heated Scrabble battle than to identify a word they are unfamiliar with. People use context to identify what word might mean instead of using a dictionary to find what a word definitely means.
When composing a dictionary on Film Theory one runs into a problem. Terms of theory are shifting creatures. They have been pulled from a land of pure context. The might and maybe of these terms stem from every angle, and can be disabled by various types of theorists.
This dictionary has an author, unlike the un-owned traditional dictionary (who is this Webster character anyway?). I am, by no means, an authority on film theory. I have a personal agenda. I am more likely to comprehend feminist theory than Marxist commentary. I can only assemble my understanding of theory terms, but I can not disable what has been put in place by authoritative theorists.
“I” is first identified in a traditional dictionary as, “the ninth letter of the English alphabet, a vowel”. Its definition as a personal pronoun is secondary. I find this offensive as I am far more important than a vowel. I am more valuable than the ninth letter of the English alphabet. I am more valuable than most of the letters (I only make one exception for the letter Y and its phonetic relation the word “why”).
Theory, its terms and meanings, are taken on a value based system. Each theorist has a location of familiarity. The authorities aim to be fair to every territory.
Why?
If every person on the planet can approach a theory from a different angle, and every work of art (which is defined differently by every person) can be consumed by the eyes and ears in a different manner, why does anyone think they can tame the “words” of theory? Why do they think they can locate exact meanings?
Here, I define not what I have tamed, but what I have approached. Mainly because I do not have the energy of a fair theorist. Secondly, I have a respect for the art of film but I know that I have seen art where others have seen nothing at all, and vice versa. I can not dictate what is important and valuable to the cannon of Film Theory. I can however communicate what I understand.
Stam forgive me, there are fields of theory that I will overlook in my ignorance. And what I do mean to define I will do in small words with simple sentences. Perhaps, in a slow and accidental fashion, I will add more checks to mark my mental dictionary of Film Theory as I continue to appreciate study.
I will set the tone for this dictionary by breaking the alphabetic tradition. The following are the two most important definitions concerning the topic of film theory that I can offer from my understanding.
Film (n) - 1. Visual documentation of events (real or staged) preserved on thin strips that are manipulated by light to project the images of what was documented. 2. Movie. Cinema. Flick. Moving Picture. 3. has a value of entertainment or education. 4. Art.
Theory (n) - 1. Hypothesis that has a consistency but not a constant, therefore it can not be defined as a “law”. 2. Not exact, but preserved by regularity. 3. Educated concept or idea about how a field of study may work.
Combined these two words are meant to convey the definition of a field of study that has no boundaries. Film Theory is the collection virtually limitless ideas that refer to a yet to be contained art. Film theory’s greatest friend and foe is the freedom to make interpretations. Like terms of theory, interpretations are wild objects. They can not be touched but they can be manipulated. Interpretation is a great freedom embraced by many. Film theorists (any type of theorist, really) have a close relationship with interpretation.
My relationship with interpreting film theory is new and contained to a small field in an endless existence of possible understandings… mights and maybes.
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Monday, December 11th, 2006
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It was my goal to have a Vagina blog every day. Yesterday I sat down to write something informative... something special. Something that would make my friends aware of the wonderful Vagina.... and something de-railed me.
As you may have read the day before yesterday, I posted some articles on Female Genital Mutilation.
One friend replied to my bulletin. I do not mean to embarrass her but I have to share what she said to get my point across.
“that does sound disgusting, but wouldn't male circumcision be considered the same, if not similar?”
..................
I was shocked, and a little upset. We live in a world where this “misconception” exists.
To verify- No, FGM is nothing like male circumcision. The male equivalent of FGM is CASTRATION.
Some people will call FGM “female circumcision”, which... I can grudgingly assume is the only reason why this “misconception” might exist.
A male circumcision is the removal of the foreskin. Sure, it’s often don’t to infant males (obviously too young to volunteer for the procedure). In some cultural communities removing the foreskin is a “coming of age” event (much like FGM). There have been debates in the scientific community on whether or not male circumcision if beneficial (some stand by the idea that it is a matter of “cleanliness”, a pro-active step towards good hygiene). Depending on who you ask, people will insist than males who are not circumcised feel more pleasure during intercourse. Men and women each have their own preference on whether or not they find the foreskin a pleasurable participant in sexual intercourse . For the most part it is an aesthetic opinion.
However the foreskin and clitoris are two entirely different entities with different purposes.
“The Clitoris is pure in purpose. It is the only organ in the body designed purely for pleasure. The clitoris is simply a bundle of nerve: 8,000 nerve fibers, to be precise. That’s a higher concentration of nerve fibers found anywhere in the body, including the fingertips, lips, and tongue and it is twice... twice... twice the number in the penis. Who needs a handgun when you have a semiautomatic.”
- from Woman: An Intimate Geography, by Natalie Angier
(As published in The Vagina Monologues, by Eve Ensler.)
The Clitoris HAS a purpose. A very important existence in the female anatomy. It plays a LARGE role in sexual stimulation. An impressive purpose considering it’s small size.
The Clitoris IS an organ. Just like your liver. Your lungs. Your HEART. Keep in mind that the foreskin to the penis is.... well... just... skin.
Also, remember that FGM is not limited to the removal of the clitoris. In some cases it includes the removal of the labia (for biological purposes the protective skin surrounding the vaginal opening).
FGM is the total annihilation of the visible parts of female sex anatomy. It is often carried out in third world patriarchal communities, with surgical accessories like glass or sharpened rocks in unclean areas without anesthetics. These women... these girls are being SUBJECTED to a rite of passage that ensures they do not feel pleasure and therefore will have total fidelity to their fathers until a husband is selected for them.
Fidelity to men should be voluntary. A bond between mates should be built, not CONSTRUCTED by the mutilation of the female form. Sexual pleasure should be mutual and give each person the opportunity to fully enjoy the act of sex on physical, emotional and spiritual levels.
Female Genital Mutilation is unacceptable in our modern world. Our existence as human beings has always been struggling for human rights in some form. This struggle has freed men and women from slavery and sexual inequality (to some degree... an impressive degree in many locations of the world).
And still, we have yet to deliver women from the dangers of FGM. Amnesty International reports that millions of women are still subjected to FGM.... every year.
Blissfully in tact, but saddened that my blessing is not shared by every woman in the world...
Naomi
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Saturday, December 9th, 2006
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Hey Dears. Read on if you love.... like... have... a VAGINA.
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Female Genital Mutilation
The term FGM covers three main varieties of genital mutilation:
1. "Sunna" circumcision, meaning “traditional,” consists of the removal of the prepuce and/or the tip of the clitoris.
2. Clitoridectomy (also referred to as excision) consists of the removal of the entire clitoris (both prepuce and glans) and the removal of the adjacent labia.
3.Infibulation (also referred to as pharaonic circumcision), is the most extreme form, consisting of the removal of the clitoris, the adjacent labia (majora and minora), and the joining of the scraped sides of the vulva across the vagina, where they are secured with thorns or sewn with catgut or thread. A small opening is kept to allow passage of urine and menstrual blood. An infibulated woman must be cut open to allow intercourse on the wedding night and is closed again afterwards to secure fidelity to the husband.
The World Health Organization has classified FGM into four types:
Type I - Excision of the prepuce, with or without excision of part or all of the clitoris.
Type II - Excision of the clitoris with partial or total excision of the labia minora.
Type III - Excision of part or all of the external genitalia and stitching/narrowing of the vaginal opening (infibulation).
Type IV – Unclassified which includes pricking, piercing or incising of the clitoris and/or labia; stretching of the clitoris and/or labia; cauterization by burning of the clitoris and surrounding tissue.
FGM is currently illegal in most countries. The United Nations, UNICEF, and the World Health Organization have considered FGM to be a violation of Human Rights and have made recommendations to eradicate this practice.
-From the V-Day “Violence Glossary”
And we have to think.... “This could not have happened recently. Surely we’re father along in our compassionate evolution than THAT.” And maybe you wrap this comfort around yourself, “It doesn’t happen in America, that’s for sure.”
Guess again.
Georgia Court Finds Father Guilty of Female Genital Mutilation in First U.S Conviction
Equality Now Hopes Case Leads to Action to End Female Genital Mutilation
November 1, 2006. A Georgia court found an Ethiopian man accused of subjecting his 2-year-old daughter to female genital mutilation (FGM) guilty of cruelty to children and aggravated battery in the first FGM trial in the United States. Khalid Adem of Gwinnett County, a suburb of Atlanta, was charged with these crimes in April 2003. Judge Richard Winegarden sentenced Mr. Adem today to 15 years, 10 years in confinement and 5 years of probation.
“This is a significant case in the fight to end FGM in the US and around the world,” said Taina Bien-Aimé, executive director of Equality Now. “This decision sends a clear message that subjecting girls to FGM will be punishable by law. We also hope that this case generates a call to action to empower voices within immigrant communities across the US who are speaking out against FGM and working to end the practice.”
Equality Now, whose offices are in New York, Nairobi and London, manages the Fund for Grassroots Activism to End FGM, a partnership with two dozen local groups in 14 African countries that work in their communities to eradicate the harmful traditional practice. In 2003, when the Adem case first broke out, Equality Now organized a meeting in Atlanta with African activists from Ethiopia, Senegal, Somalia, Mali and other African countries and local organizers in African immigrant communities in Georgia to exchange ideas and to strategize collectively for outreach to end the underground practice in the US. The meeting also highlighted the critical need for community outreach and education, which much be underscored in light of the Adem conviction. Subsequent to the meeting, Georgia passed a law prohibiting FGM in 2005, the 17th state to do so. The US federal law criminalizing FGM was enacted in 1997.
FGM is a harmful traditional practice that affects an estimated 130 million women around the world causing lifelong physical and psychological harm. The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services estimated in 1997 that over 168,000 girls and women living in the United States either were subjected to or are at risk of being subjected to FGM in practicing immigrant African communities in the U.S. in states including Georgia.
Equality Now is an international human rights organization that works to protect and promote the civil, political, economic and social rights of girls and women.
-From the Equality Now web site
Revolting, yet a REALITY in our world. Fathers are cutting up their babies vaginas. She didn’t even understand what it was but he did. He knew that it was a part of his daughter, and for reasons beyond sanity... took her chance at really knowing that part of herself away.
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Friday, December 8th, 2006
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( I posted this on MySpace, and thought my LJ'ers needed to see it too! If you want the HTML for the images reply to me and I'll mail them to you as an RTF attachment)
Hey Ladies and Gentlemen,
As most of you know by now I will be performing in NMSU's 2007 Production of the Vagina Monologues. I’m very excited to be on stage for such an important cause. Money raised by the NMSU Vaginas (that’s me and my cast mates) will be donated to Amigos de las Mujeres de Juarez. Ahem... that’s Friends of the Women of Juarez.
The V-Day mission is to end violence against women. Every day, in every curve of our globe, some form of violence against women is acted out. In some regions.... this behavior is considered normal! In some cities the crimes against women are overlooked, or undermentioned. It happens here in America, in your home town. It happens a stone throw over the border in Mexico. It happens every where, and it shouldn’t. V-Day will not stop its efforts until women are safe.
I am grateful for all the support each one of you have shown me. I know some of you are happy for me, but some are still a little squeamish about the “V” thing. And by V, I mean my new habit of saying... prepare yourself... VAGINA. Yes there will be an abundant use of the word VAGINA in the next few months. I might make a habit of saying VAGINA. I mean I’m a NMSU VAGINA who will be performing in the VAGINA Monologues. I will be saying VAGINA in front of hundreds of people in a matter of months. So get used to it, my loves.
Honestly, I thought some of you would welcome the idea of me using a more Politically Correct term. It doesn’t get any cleaner than the biological term VAGINA. I mean usually I just say CUNT.
Ah well, I guess you’d all rather me go back to slinging the world CUNT around. Which is fine by me, I much prefer CUNT. I like to talk about my CUNT, and I like when the men I love talk about my CUNT. I’m fond of retelling the adventures of my CUNT to my friends. I get excited when I say CUNT. I get a little tickled just looking at the word CUNT.
CUNT yeah.
Anyway, I’ll keep you all notified about the production and any events that the NMSU Vaginas will organize. We need your help. Women need your help. As a matter of fact, the whole world needs a little help setting things right.
I love you All.
Naomi.
P.S. Here are some pic/links to the V-Day web site. Show your support for Vaginas... or whatever you’re more comfortable with calling them... and use the HTML to post on your Web Sites, Blogs, Bulletins, or better yet (for you MySpacers) Copy and paste the HTML into your About Me section. I’d love to see us all bearing an on line mark of what we stand for and who we love (women, mothers, sisters, nieces, aunts, grandmothers, cousins, friends, best friends, soul mates... the lady that works at the corner store.... the girl that you have class with but keeps to herself... lady strangers who have voices and even if we haven’t heard them it doesn’t mean we can’t care about them). Maybe we can start a little network of awareness just for starters.
Just use the reply to this bulletin option, and copy and paste the codes from the reply text. Let’s all do a little something to get the word out and educate our friends and family about what needs to be done to keep women safe
With much love, still.
N.
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Tuesday, October 31st, 2006
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how do i save my old entries?!??!?!
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mostly_painless's journal
calm.
tired.
busy.