Tag: creative writing
A Safe Sex Sonnet
In bed, one will ask “Are you ready?”‘Ready’ has little to do with your age,you do not have to be going steady.There is no ‘right place’ or certain life stage.So long as someone uses some latexprior to showing all your affection,it’s drilled into your brain: “Practice safe sex!”The pill is not well rounded protection.Move fast, slow or upside down, remain bold!Sex is flat if you don’t communicate.Grant that you don’t want a bundle to hold,it is simple to evade a due date.This sonnet has one thing to reinforce,have happy, healthy, and safe intercourse!Trail
Trailyour fingertips over my skin.Make me arch with shivers.Licka pathway from my navel to my breasts,hear me moan in pleasure.Kissme everywhere and more.Let me love you forever.You May
I will never let youkeep the accent lampin the kitchen.There’spans,and pots,and spoons,and knives.Cutting boards are littered with chives.The wine we have is Spanish,and the cheese we have is French,and the rug we have is Turkish,and the steaks are made from deer.But the accent lamp?It’s not going to be here.
The Secret Garden
His sins do you confess them?No I keep them.To some a peculiar matterfor wifeand husband, butthe summer I was sixteenthirty-two years afterthe summer my sister was sixteenwhat to do when daughtersand fathersfor he was surely a different man thenlive as equals? Words unboundexchanging.I know now how it was unfairbut at the same time–he was never my hero,always just another manslowly sowing another gardento make up for his paradise lost.I keep my own secret garden,and his too.It made us closer.(It made us the same person.)But now I cannot tell apart bruised bloomsmine or my father’sso I will keep these, too;in the same small boxas his gold cufflinks, and that chip of gravelfrom another life.A Thunderstorm
i wish i were more thingsthat a person could love,but my skin is rawand scarred,every second that i breatheis a second too long,and even with the right intentionsmy actions end up wrong.What I’m trying to say isI find myself appreciating the rainbut still I hope for the sun,and too often i am fallingbefore the drop has begun.It seems I am never enough,and loneliness hugsme until i cannot screambut i need to be this way,it’s how you left me.Social Etiquette and the “Dating Dilemma”
Here is an awkward social situation that I’ve personally encountered multiple times in the course of my adult dating career here at Acadia. I call this the ‘Dating Dilemma.’
This is the scenario: A nice boy from class approaches me somewhere on campus, and asks me if I would like to “hang out sometime,” or maybe more specifically to “grab coffee,” and then requests a phone number exchange. This act seems innocent enough; even courageous if we consider the ease with which technology has virtually eliminated the inherent social pressure of such interactions – and yet this person has opted to kick it ‘old school’ and risk the possible face-to-face rejection: a bold move indeed, good sir. That is, assuming this is a dating proposition.
Let’s say I am in fact a heterosexual female. Let’s say I’m currently committed to a monogamous relationship. Let’s also say that the year is 2017 and remarkably, despite being a cisgender female, I have somehow managed to amass an impressive array of platonic friendships with humans from every degree of the gender spectrum, cisgender males included.
While I hesitate to admit that antiquated social convention would dictate that yes: this interaction is obviously a dating proposition, I also happen to be what my Victorian foremothers termed, a “New Woman.” I drink, I flirt, I wear blue jeans, I carve out my own career path through higher education in the hopes of one day becoming a financially independent adult, and most importantly, I keep company with multiple single adult men with whom I share absolutely no expectation of sex. It’s all very scandalous, I know.
This is the dilemma: While I beg you pardon my sarcasm, the point that I’m trying to get across here is that I don’t want to assume he’s asking me out if all he implied is that we’re “grabbing coffee” or “hanging out.” I want to assume that if he had intended to proposition me for a potential relationship, he would have made that clear in his opening statement. So this is the awkward part; the ball is in now in my court, and I have two real life examples for the possible directions in which this conversation could go, based solely on assumption.
Example #1: I assume his intentions are purely plutonic, and while the thought briefly crosses my mind that I should probably mention my boyfriend somewhere in this conversation, the New Woman in me says “No, I refuse to believe that the only possible scenario in which a man would ask me to hang out is because he finds me sexually appealing. To assume such a thing would be vain and also a little depressing, if I’m being honest here. Therefore I will proceed under the assumption that this male person simply wants to connect minds, not bodies, and establish a meaningful friendship.” With that, I fork over my number, and we make plans to “hang out.” Long story short, somewhere down the line, he sheepishly admits that these ‘hangouts’ have been ‘dates’ all along, and tries to advance the relationship into that territory. Suddenly, I’m the bad guy here for having failed in my obligation to announce my relationship status to every stranger I encounter in the run of a day. This person now believes that some dark magic has taken place in which I’ve purposely concealed such information for my own malicious purposes. They are hurt, they feel betrayed, and they may even resort to some ego-saving tactic such as calling me a slut for leading them on.
Example #2: I begrudgingly follow that antiquated social convention I mentioned earlier, and immediately announce the existence of my boyfriend. I do this because nice boy from class is male, and I am female, and therefore it is my civic responsibility is to assume that by “hang out” he actually meant “make out,” and by “grab coffee” he actually meant “grab each other’s butts,” because that’s obviously the only context in which I could possibly spend time with a member of the opposite sex. This action on my part is guaranteed to yield a variety of awkward results depending on his initial intentions (which are still unbeknownst to me; I merely took a guess and went for it.) If he actually was asking me out, he may now feel embarrassed and attempt to save face by pretending he was just asking for friendship all along – making me feel presumptive and vain – and as part of this he may even still take my number but will likely never use it. On the flip side, perhaps he really was just asking for friendship, but now believes I’m enslaved to some control-freak “Jabba the Hutt” boyfriend who doesn’t allow me to hang out with other males, and decides to steer clear lest he be identified as competition and subsequently targeted. At best, he simply accepts this information with dignity and tells me to have a nice life.
The solution to this ‘dating dilemma’ is simple, virtually pain-free, and guaranteed to save everyone involved from having to assume the position of ‘the bad guy’ at any point during the interaction. This applies to all gender and sexual orientations; and I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve been guilty of this myself on occasion. All it takes is a little social etiquette. Here it is: clarify your communication. When asking someone out on a date, don’t hide behind vague statements like “hang out” or “watch Netflix.” You’ve come this far, so dare to sprinkle a little honesty into your question to avoid confusion. For example, slip the term ‘date’ in there so they understand your intentions and can respond more accurately. This will not only aid you in achieving desired results (and/or avoiding disastrous ones,) but it’s also simply a polite thing to do – you’re not leaving any implications hanging in the air, and therefore you’re not putting the other party in an awkward situation in which they have to make a judgment call on how best to respond. To clarify my point, here’s how these two situations would play out in a perfect world, free of those dreaded antiquated (and frankly, sexist) social conventions:
Example #1: A nice boy from class approaches me somewhere on campus and asks me if I would like to “hang out sometime,” and then requests a phone number exchange. Since “hanging out” is understood to be a platonic activity, I am free to agree or disagree regardless of my relationship status – or either of our gender identities – because both of those pieces of information are irrelevant in this social situation. We make plans to “hang out,” and have a great time in which nobody’s feelings get stepped on, because we’ve both understood the context of this relationship from the beginning. Hey, maybe I’ll even introduce him to my boyfriend and then we can all be friends.
Example #2: A nice boy from class approaches me somewhere on campus and asks me if I would like to “go on a date sometime,” and then requests a phone number exchange. I am either single, in which case I am free to agree or disagree at my leisure, or I’m not single, but I understand the context of this proposition and am therefore free to disagree with or without explanation. At no point during the conversation am I obligated to awkwardly insert my relationship status ‘incase it’s relevant,’ because it’s not.
In summary, the awkward ‘Dating Dilemma’ is easily avoided with a little social etiquette in which intentions are clear, nobody is put on the spot, romances blossom (once you find someone who agrees to go on that hot date with you, that is) and the magic of friendship prevails without any unforeseen expectations based on age-old assumptions about gender roles. Hallelujah!
The Feminist Killjoy: Misconceptions
My journey with feminism has been long and complicated and has most definitely evolved over the years. Looking back, it is abundantly clear that my parents raised me and my two sisters to be little feminists pretty much straight out of the womb. However, it took me quite some time to accept the label myself and to begin to engage with feminism as a political movement. That being said, self-identifying as a feminist is tricky. By this, I mean that along with accepting and embracing this label of feminist, or being a feminist, you are faced with the plethora of negative connotations that come with that label. I learned about the negative connotations behind the feminist label even before I truly began to understand the purpose and importance of feminism. The first time I was called a feminist was in a class discussion in high school when it was used as some kind of insult
Somewhere, somehow along the way, being a feminist in people’s minds became synonymous with being a “man-hater”. This, I am telling you right now, is absolute complete and total bullshit. Now, I will gladly accept the label of an angry feminist because honestly, I am angry. A lot of the issues that the feminist movement is fighting against make me really fucking angry. Such issues range from my person (and ongoing) experience of being cat-called when I’m walking outside at night, to the fact that the current President of the United States was elected even though it was blatantly clear he has no concept of what sexual consent is and bragged openly about sexually assaulting women. Now, because those things make me really fucking angry, does that mean I hate men? No! Absolutely not.
Here’s the thing, yeah those things make me angry but I also am educated enough on feminism to recognize that to direct my anger at individuals (read: individual men) for those actions is misguided. So, while I may in the moment yell obscenities at the guy cat-calling me from his car, I know that my anger is really with the systemic socialization of our society that teaches people that yelling at people while they’re walking alone at night is okay.
The point of feminism is not to hate on men. Feminist scholar bell hooks said it best when she articulated the aim of feminism when she wrote that “feminism is a movement to end sexism, sexist exploitation, and oppression”. All of us in society have been socialized to accept sexist oppression, including men. Feminism is not an us vs. them battle, it is not women vs. men. It took me years to unlearn all the harmful sexist behaviors I had been taught my whole life, and I am still not there yet. There are ways I’m sure I myself still reproduce sexist oppression. Yet, through my understanding of feminism I have been able to grow as a human being and have learned how to treat other human beings better, both women and men. When you call feminism “man-hating”, you’re completely missing the point of feminism. You are reducing the sexist oppression that negatively affects everyone, regardless of gender identity – and the anger that comes with living under such a system – down to an individual level. To suggest that feminism is man-hating, it suggests that feminists are just angry, or that feminists simply do not like men. This ignores everything feminism is actually fighting against and instead just perpetuates the system of sexist oppression.
At the end of the day, feminism is a movement that is working towards making the lives of others (and ourselves) better. Yes negative connotations and stereotypes of feminism unfortunately continue to exist. And yes, I will admit that these stereotypes initially made me hesitant to claim the label myself. However, once I realized that anybody who thinks me labelling myself as someone who cares about equality and the well-being of others makes me crazy is not somebody I want in my life, I got over it. So yes, hello, here I am, an angry (not man-hating) feminist. To anybody who knows me well, you’re already aware of this. To anybody who doesn’t – now you know.
How Can I Know What Love Is
Love is one of the earliest concepts I remember being introduced to. It was the unbreakable connection between family. You could fight all you wanted and the love stayed strong. I never understood that love; it never seemed as strong as the anger I held as a child. Yet something soothed the anger, shrinking the blinding flames singeing my emotions. I still never felt it outright, but in hindsight that was my love for my family. I still felt wrong about how I loved. It felt weak, simple, and easy to lose. Surely love should feel like more than cheap, thin, one-size-fits-all gloves. Despite wanting to love differently, there were problems at home. The glove still got wet, was lost, or formed holes. My fingers still froze. I wish this paragraph was meant to go somewhere, unfortunately this isn’t the time for that to happen. My discomfort about my lack of love still has a stronger effect than the love itself when it comes to family.
Fortunately, I have found a love that feels good. It has a warm, calm effect. It is wrapping yourself in a blanket fresh from the dryer. I feel that love for a bird. She knows who she is and she’ll hate me for writing this. It’s often said that writers are mainly motivated by their pursuit of sex. Personally, I would agree with that, but not on this occasion. Today I’m simply writing for marmite. You see, love is absolutely not something I understand. I do, however, embrace it. To be specific, love comes from a friendship through which you often stay up until near the dawn discussing your lives, school, politics, the mundane and everyday, you also share in your adoration of a particular trio of British automotive journalists, police officers who are reflections of the best and worst parts of you both, a small, fictional paper company based in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Most importantly, love is understanding what it can mean for a bird to have a complete and utter disregard for marmite.
Cosmopolitan Love
My darling, with her clothes litteredon a floor painted orange.The windows did not come prepared.Cactus on a stool,and a stack of our vinyls(we bought them in a far away fair).The nights are force with a paint of its own;the windows steer it in,clothes light up in appeasing glee.When you get out of bed,and look down a familiar walk to the tub.It’s a feeling that digs into my chest,and into the air that’s in between.Shunning out the sheets that were over us,stuck in a place I want to be.Remember where our vinyls were?They’re fuzzing away a black night’s soundwith a warring fervor.Her wine’s surface bows tofuzzing sound too.I’d rather not have another, darling.Her hand won’t write like yours,and her dresses won’t sing like yours,and the rain won’t stick to her necklike yours.People find something worth looking for,I’m not willing to look that far.It’s already read in the sweat,and in the walk to the Nest.We’ll talk about the stars that were clawedinto the ceiling with a box nail.My darling—she reaches for the glass of wateron the nightstand.Her lips are parched whenthin winter trees peek in;spaces between them peek too.Their eyes veer throughout the night though,focusing momentarily on cactus.Where our vinyls were.Dark(er) Girls and Doors
My mother’s friend sips on her coffee,
her eyes don’t leave my face.
she warns as she looks at me, quietly, without saying a word,
because at that age you must have heard warnings about smooth talking beasts,
because things like this are not to be said,
they are obvious.
I see your mom’s face in your face.
You look alike. Same lips.
And I see your daughter’s faces in your face,
and your granddaughters’ faces in your face.
They all look back at me through you,
and I see myself in you.
“The summer tan is catching up on your daughter. She should probably stay inside. Such a tomboy! I saw her racing with the boys; she’s pretty fast. She’s getting pretty dark though. Are you sure it’s ladylike? For her to be out there racing and getting so dark? Who is going to marry her?”
I nestled myself into you.
The anthem of hopelessly hopeful girls worldwide? Isn’t it?
Thought I’d make a home out of you, like a bee attracted to a flower,
like a bird attracted to a tree.
I couldn’t resist it,
the smell,
the colors.
I thought I was going to make a home out of you,
but your branches started to close in.
You perfumed more and more of rotting leaves and flowers.
Your colors faded, faded and faded with me.
We rotted together.
My kinks were less and less inviting
my color too dark,
the spices my food was made with too strong? Too smelly?
My freckles not enough to remind you of the ideal woman?
Someone lighter perhaps?
Surely not this dark.
The beast you were warned about as a child by your mother….
you don’t realize that the beast won’t simply devour you.
The reason for why your mother won’t even allow you to talk to the beast,
is because he speaks.
Smoothly, warms you up like tea on a cold morning,
he draws you in & makes himself the cage,
and you the bird in it.
It’d be a waste to feed only once,
why not devour you?
Piece by piece,
smile by smile,
wasted minute by wasted minute,
memory by memory,
touch by touch,
before you’ll know all of you will be devoured.
Pretty curls, and a snapback to hide a head full of mischief.
Dark girls.
Dark(er) girls.
Dark enough to blend in the night,
so that they can be forgotten and never spoken of again.
Night stands.
Someone you don’t show up with in front of your friends.
At least not seriously.
The girls you got to keep an eye out for.
The girl you just have to settle with as the last choice?
Is that what your mom’s friend meant?
Hands work restlessly.
You ask your mother
why won’t she praise the good Lord with the rest of us anymore?
A question repeated too many times to be counted in this world.
Why is her friend so annoying?
Why can’t she mind her business? Let her race on her bikes and rollerblades in peace?
Why did she have to act like she even wanted her over for coffee?
What’s there to be upset about?
Why can’t she tell her friend that she doesn’t really care about her daughter being a tomboy or getting darker?
She never had anything to say about it.
She tells you to go study, that grown folks don’t always say what’s on their minds.
Years later you realize that the scrubbing wasn’t idle,
it was the scrubbing of the bars you were locked in.
So that you’d never have to scrub your way out.
So your daughters,
your daughters’ daughters,
would never have to rot in a cage that smelled of dead flowers.
Before you leave to study some more for the next four years far far away she warns you of beasts.
She tells you to not bother with boys with pretty curls and heads full of mischief that talk like her friend.
She waves goodbye, finally doing something else besides scrubbing.
I guess I finally realized that books do take you somewhere.
“Books and doors are the same thing. You open them and you go through another world.” – Jeanette WintersonOde to my Bed
Comfy sheets and blankets galore
underneath the window sill,
I cannot await you furthermore
I just left you and still – I crave for you to hold me,
to feel your warm embrace,
I miss the way we used to be,
your pillows around my face.
I find it rather hard, it’s tough
To make it through the day,
I feel I do not see you enough,
so sorry I can never stay.
It’s a shame I have to go to class
and leave you unattended,
It is only when I return at last,
That my heart is finally mended.
So in a lecture, here I sit,
with thoughts of you, through
every passing minute,
I cannot help but appeal to,
the promise you offer me,
falling into the sweetest dreams,
we can be together finally.Wing Tipped Hammer
Don’t drop the hammer in the lake
chilled inexperienced hands seem to think otherwise.
Just, don’t drop the hammer in the lake honey.
Shivering maple leaves were strewn upon the dock in autumn,
and had rustled in protest in the remembrance of summer.
Hands shook in the frigidity of the imposing winter and
a girlish simper was the only thing around that was still as green as spring.The hammer lives in the lake.
That was the wing tipped hammer that built houses.
He used to hold the dimpled navy rubber handle,
to handle anything.Turn this baby around, and then they will be scared of ya
he showed me. Two stainless steel arches pierce.
Bring it to the new house, you will need it,
try keeping it at the front door
and no one will bother you. Winking, half genuine, half unserious.They will be sleeping with the fishes
right next to the hammer
living in the lake.A familiar notch at the base,
something inflicted by him on every hammer he ever had.
So you know it’s yours
he explained.
Grabbing the exacto knife,
he knows exactly where to put the knick.
Right at the base
of the one that you took with you
to the new rental.Pointed on one end, blunt on the other
two relentless sides.
Lots of gravity, and tough as nails.Gentle and exact
brute and firm.Make, and break.
Daggers at Xagħra Circle
3,500 BC
no metals native to this ground but people
who built their lives in stone know
stars and sea, know the scope
of the world from here2,500 BC
Tarxien
Cemetery comes
strangely to life when metal
comes to Melita ¾ its Neolithic name
you were buried with your
glittering daggers four
thousand years
ago1,500 BC
no
layer
of destruction in
the archaeological record, no
deliberate burning of the Tarxien Cemetery
Culture, but a faultless transition
to Phoenician settlements
where knives are
common
place