Luck

Luck has happened to me in a lot of ways. For instance, the summer before I turned eleven is the summer that my great uncle moved into the soldier's home. My father bought his house and what was to be a glorious summer was dedicated to the improvement and renovation of my great uncle's home. I don't remember what my father and I fought about that day, but I decided his words were egregious enough to make me leave. My house was 15 minutes away by car, so I hoped that I would make it back on my bike. I pedaled, hard and heavy. When I got to a specific intersection--and I don't know why I did this--I stopped. I moved onto the sidewalk and stood. My mother had gone home but, I knew, was on her way back to my great uncle's house. So I waited for a moment before pushing my bike to someone's front door. I wasn't crying when I knocked and asked the women who, in some trick of memory, had kind, if confused, eyes. I didn't start crying when I asked to borrow her phone, a request which she obliged. The house smelled odd, like other people's houses do. I typed in my mother's number with deliberate, shaking hands. And when she answered a confused hello to the unidentified number calling her, I sobbed out a shaky, "Mom?"

The luck is this: the woman who answered the door was not a pedophile or murderer, at least not on that day; she let a dirty, sweaty tomboy borrow her phone without more than a second thought; my mother saw an unrecognized number and, in her faith in humanity, decided to answer my call. The luck is this: she was right around the corner when I called; the woman in the house gave me tissues; I was fine.

***

I certainly have written since the spring, but posting has been a little dicey. Not all of my thoughts fit easily into the blog post genre. Beyond this, my emotional state remains murky--not dark, just unsure. It can be difficult to know where to place my emotional foot; the ground shakes. But this memory presented itself very clearly and would not be rerouted to the recycling bin. Which, in my opinion, seems to be about 90% of writing: what can you not, not say?

***

What I have to say is this: everything is messy, luck is everyday, I feel everything.

***

“woMEN”

wHISper please: (don’t) know.

mUSt be Italian (i.e. fra

gi(r)l

e:

The way(AYY girl!        whassup)

these knots(not (hopefully) FGM scars

and nonconsensual)blow(jobs) through

my ribcage is the kind (an adjective for men who

do “women

‘s” rights) of

hap(penstance

(i.e. lucky-it’s-not-happening-to-you) hap)

piness that hurtsMy(ithurts)

particles arranged (child marriages for 150 million girls in the next decade):

Crystal(was a girl I knew, raped by trustedsomeone#7)

line and fractured(like bones of women killed for dowries in India)

I stare and watch(in the same way as Mr. 14-year-old-porn-voyeur, but not as de

hUman

izing) the other particles flOat(like bodies of prostituted children)

free (i.e. unlike 27 million people enslaved worldwide)

Not trapped (like survivors of domestic violence)

by the way they lay(with men—slut, whore. Or don’t—

queer, dyke, butchbitch. But always: pussy-cunt-worth(less))

And I think:

You lucky, lucky bastards

wHISper please: don’t you know

*

“Valley Girl Victim”

It’s like,                              

so just like,

whatever it was that time

when I dated Jeff!

Omigod! Yes!

I was just about to guess!

He was, like, so particular

about everything you ate.

That’s, like, so true!

Who was that boy that dated Sue?

He stopped her, like, having friends

or, like, whatever.

Yeah. He was like Chad.

He just, like, made me sad.

It was, like, I wish

it was different.

Oh my gosh, honey, I know!

He always made you feel so, like, low.

How many times a day

did he mold your face like a master of clay?

List the times he said you were lacking

when you didn’t vomit after snacking.

When was the last time you said

yes (and meant it) on a bed?

Just, like, tell me about

your personal doubt?

Is your body—

tanned, worn, made up (to your his liking)—your body?

*

“Medusa’s Pub(l)ic H(umiliation)air”

Excluded from your

history lesson is

whathappenedafter,

the undisclosed events in

Athena’s temple. (Really,

I didn’t choose the venue.)

After explaining to her,

goddess of justice,

the extremity of the violation—

shamed in bonnet and glasses—

we reached an understanding.

(Hair (down there) is,

apparently,

as easily changed.)

P.S.

When he asked to

“go out”

again, no

amount of water

could’ve unshaped

that

stone.

My Life Fell Apart in November

It's been over a month since I was supposed to do what I do every year: say "fuck this blog," make a new one, and start again. I didn't do this for multiple reasons. I decided I had no reason to essentially delete the past year--despite my desire to. I also realized that I like the meaning in the title of this blog, and that I was and am too busy, exhausted, stressed, and upset to deal with outlining another space on the internet for my annually renewed voice. All of this means that this blog is still here. Hooray! In transition, I'll just say that the continuation of this blog is also reflective of the past that continues to punch me in the face.

What past? All the past, my friend, all the past. In short, I've realized that the only thing ever holding me to Saint Mike's has been my friends. Without the friends I used as anchors, this place has a habit of sucking. This new perspective has benefits and negative effects. If I hadn't made these friends, I wouldn't have been held here as long as I was, which would've deprived me of the amazing professors I've met and been taught by, and the shaping moments where I've endured, failed, triumphed, and learned. Losing these friends, I've also branched out... a lot. The number of people I know and hang out with has expanded tremendously and these new people have just as much to offer, if not more, than those with whom I used to circle. On the negative side, losing these friends on a campus that seems to get smaller by the day means awkward interactions at least four days a week. It also means I feel sometimes like I've wasted my time the past two years; though I know that's not true, it's easy to get sucked into these feelings. My confidence in myself has been called into question; I no longer trust in the same way and slightly botched social interactions expand to night- or even week-ending boulders of shame.

I've also had time to consider what made the friendships I had friendships. I ask myself, what did you like about this person? Why were you close? What was the point of keeping them in your life? These questions are risky because they tip quickly and wholeheartedly in one direction or another. In realizing that these people weren't worthy of being grafted to my life, I also think about how I wish I was closer to the people I've become closer to. These, in combination with each other, make me question whether or not there is the possibility of longevity in these friendships, in any friendship. Obviously plenty of people have close friends from college, but maybe I'm just not one of those people, which is terrifying to me; it makes me think there is no foundational connection to be had, no connective tissue between any of us. The positive view of this is that I just haven't met these people yet, that outside the confines of this campus, the people who I've been waiting for since starting college are also waiting. But we generally find something resembling friendship anywhere, so I don't know if a new geographic location will be particularly transformative. Generally, I land somewhere in the middle. I've put more emotional weight on Christine and Katy and Lexi than I ever have since coming to college; friends I've had, who've already been tested, still support me and I've cultivated a new appreciation for them because of how long they've put up with me; this terminology (i.e. "put up with me") is particularly important as it's something not a lot of people seem to be able to do.

My life fell apart in November and I'm still putting it back together. It's been almost an entire semester and I'm still processing the hurt. If this were a movie, I'd tell you that I feel better every day, but that's not true. Some days are conquerable through hard work, other days I fall down as soon as I get out of bed, and an increasing number of days let me know that it's probably (maybe) going to be moderately okay and fine eventually.

***

I've written so many poems! I don't have time to post them ever and right now I'm just procrastinating but here are poems yay!



“Dished”

Pasta pot water boils,
bubbles kiss the air.

As I lean to pour in

           (the whole box)
you tuck hair behind my ear,
protecting it from flame.

Turn it off, empty it in the drain.
Lament lost linguini, and
put wheaty tears through the colander.

Chicken Parmesan, served:
red, and white, and
cold, on the table.

"Panic”

Right, so, you know I’ve got a lot to do.

            Right, but I’ll let you know when I care.

No, no. Please don’t make this a big to-do.

            Oh no! Too late, seems like you’re out of air.

Okay, but everything’s shaking; you’ve gotta stop.

            Okay, but also, I could not.

Ha!Ha! Maybe we shouldn’t do a calmforanxious swap!

            Haha! But your stress, to me, is aught!

Yes, but, does everything have to spin?

            Yes! And it can go faster!

Please, my selfhood is thin.

            Pa-lease! On this brain’s walls, three brands of doubt I’ll plaster!

A writhing film settles over everything perceivable;

the me running circles in my head: incessantly unabatable.

“Confab”

Fear of (circle one) falling/failure/flop:

you sat and watched me pick at my soda label.

Tête-à-tête: a lover’s embrace in a coffee shop.

Wary of your compliments, I will not be the crow to your Aesop.

I’m quite aware of loving me: a task of which you may never be able.

Fear of (circle one) falling/failure/flop.

Attempting to determine if one and the other is a fop,

forces us to stare instead at the table.

Tête-à-tête: a lover’s embrace in a coffee shop.

Feel your eyes on me as I nervously hunt a cough drop

and the longer we sit here, the more we grow stabile.

Fear of (circle one) falling/failure/flop.

To purposefully touching your hand, I will never cop.

An unequal metaphor, which I reject, dictates you be the house to my gable.

Tête-à-tête: a lover’s embrace in a coffee shop.

Eventually taking part in a conversation worthy of eavesdrop;

falling as I stand, you grab my hand to steady, make stable.

Fear of (circle one) falling/failure/flop.

Tête-à-tête: a lover’s embrace in a coffee shop.

***

***

"We'll say that,

We'll say we're okay"

Poems

It moves like the small jolt

of a stall—a too-quick-clutch-and-not-enough-gas-why-can’t-I-do-this

stall.

The final lurch puffs a tease

of what the heater had to offer;

the fan’s laugh dies while

the engine halts—grumpy, haughty, finicky clunk.

Release the necessary

Expletivesighscream.
(Turn the key.)

***

A trick of the light—
sunlight pierces windowpane to ask

who's that, who’s there?

A trick of the light—
infinitely varied:
conceived, conceiving, receding;

stepping, stopped,

bounding, crashing, falling,

bloated, flat, skinned, skinless, bone, ash.

A trick of the light—

moments from darkness and silence,

decisions and truths hashed and rehashed

declare themselves unknowable.

A trick of the light—
composition: elusive, location: nonexistent/miscellaneous, center: uncentered;

written in stone is only their reality, their relation:

mother, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, friend.

A trick of the light—
sunlight pierces windowpane to ask

who's that, who’s there?

A trick of the light—

In the fading sun, declare me

unknown, unknowable, unseeable, intangible, invisible:

translucent.

***

Strange Gospels by Cynthia Cruz from The Glimmering Room

Woke in a drool of ribbons and spit.

Lace lost someplace on the body.

Call Billy collect

Off the side of the highway.

And I will

Wait in girlhood

Panties and Billy's black

Leather lace ups

In this glass phone booth

Forever.