Archive for March, 2010
It’s STILL MARCH??! Bastards! Well, I can’t think of any other women written poems, so I retreat to my old standby…
By Dorothy Parker
I do not like my state of mind;
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I’d be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men….
I’m due to fall in love again.
As far as the privacy goes, it’s sort of disingenuous for a person who blogs, Tweets and Facebooks as much as I do to start making noises about privacy only when the shit hits the fan. And I have nothing to hide. There was no bad behavior by either party. And I certainly didn’t want to do any passive-aggressive half-drunken weep-blogging, with little dribs and drabs coming out here and there, the sort of thing used by some folks to get the other party to ask, “Is everything okay?”
So why now? Aside from the handy month mile-marker, you may have noticed I haven’t posted much in the last month. That’s partly due to laziness and depression, but also partly due to the fact that every time I logged on to WordPress, it was the elephant in the room. (See what I did there, AXA Financial? It’s an elephant, not an 800-pound gorilla that’s impossible to ignore. The 800-pound gorilla is WRONG.) Anyway, where was I. Oh, yeah. Elephant, a big ol’ writer’s block, dropping big ol’ elephant turds all over the place. Elephant turds of LIES!!! And also turds of self-delusion: If I didn’t write it, it wasn’t real. Yeah, that’s it.
Since discovering I’d been unceremoniously defriended on facebook by so and so, I haven’t been blogging much, for the reason that Mr. Wheaton so cleverly articulates…that big thing is just dwarfing all else in my head. But, like I said yesterday, that post just isn’t there yet. So. Onward we slog until I can be fair or no longer care.
A few years ago…jaysus, maybe four years ago, I was friends with one of those crazy about each other/now we hate each other kind of couples. You know the ones. Well, I was throwing a Halloween party during one of their “we hate each other” phases and there were days and days about who would be invited and would they come at the same time issues. Actually, it was the first time in my life I’d ever dealt with such a couple in real life- but from everything I’d learned from TV (thank you Cheers) this couple would get back together and everything would be as it was. So, I invited them both and made no staggered arrival times provisions. They both said they’d come, but that night the guy gave me some excuse for not showing and the girl made some lame excuse about why she had to leave early. I didn’t think about it further.
A few days later, though, we’re all sitting around the table playing poker and the guy casually says “ha! It’s the hand that kept coming up on Halloween!”
I looked up and my eyes met the girl’s eyes for a split second. The color drained from her face.
I looked away.
For weeks after that she kept casually trying start a conversation about it – partly because she wasn’t sure whether I’d made the connection and obviously, didn’t want to admit anything if I didn’t know anything.
For my part, I shut down all these attempts.
I’ve always been much more interested in what people don’t want me to know, than in what they’re willing to tell me. I think that instinct is what will always prevent me from truly being a good person.
Eventually, she did end up coming clean, I responded with Casablancaesque shock and we never spoke of it again.
That, as they say, was that.
(Yeah, there’s a post I really wanna write, but it keeps coming out weird, so we’ll continue to publish our mental ramblings until we get the real one right or the urge to write it goes away. Deuces!)
“It’s a myth that friendships last forever,” says Irene S. Levine, a psychologist, professor of psychiatry at New York University’s medical school and author of “Best Friends Forever: Surviving a Breakup with Your Best Friend.” We are tied to our family by blood and our spouses by law, so we are often more attentive to those relationships. “Friendships are relationships of choice, so we tend to overlook them,” she says.
As a result, many friendships die from neglect, Dr. Levine says. And this in itself poses a very sticky problem in friendship breakups: How do you know if you’re being neglected—or dumped? What if your friend is always too busy to get together but always seems to have a good excuse? What if she never calls you, but seems happy enough to hear from you when you call?
And there’s the rub. There are no rules or even societal norms for friendship breakups. Friends who want to split don’t go to counseling or get a mediator or a lawyer, as divorcing couples do. And there typically aren’t a bunch of nosy relatives willing to intervene and relay messages, as there are when a split is within a family.
Also, dissolving a friendship is harder than ever these days, with so many digital ties holding us together, from social-networking Web sites like Facebook to stored numbers in cellphones.
Dave Nadkarni can tell you all about it. When he decided to end a relationship a few years ago with a close female friend he felt was spreading rumors about him, he stopped returning her calls, defriended her on Facebook, blocked her on his instant-message list, stopped following her on Twitter and changed her name in his cellphone to “Do Not Pick Up.” “It was cathartic,” he says.
Fox to cancel 24 after the current dreadful season.
I’m not going to break.
I’m not to going to worry about it anymore.
This may come as bad news to the 4 of you left out there that still rent videos at Blockbuster. The once-great chain of video stores is once again teetering on the edge of filing for bankruptcy.
Blockbuster filed its annual report yesterday and, well… things are not looking up. Sinking sales and increasing competition from services like Netflix and on-demand video “raise substantial doubt about our ability to continue as a going concern.”
love me for me that is! I’m awesome, gimmee a hug!
I keed, I keed. You should love you for you too! You’re probably awesome. I mean, not me, awesome. But you really shouldn’t put that kind of pressure on yourself. I am AMAZING.
Okay, I’ll cut it out now. But it’s kind of the theme of the poem I picked for today. Appreciating your own good qualities, patting yourself on the back, just plain old loving you! I don’t know about you, but I spend an awful lot of time in my head replaying the scenes of my life. Stuff I shouldn’t have said or shouldn’t have done. Moments where I wish I had stood up for myself more forcefully – planted my left foot firmly up some jerk’s backside. I dwell on the million and one things about myself that I wish/should/need to improve.
Dawn should eat better.
Dawn needs to exercise.
Dawn needs to leave her house. Dawn should be friendlier.
Dawn’s hair needs to get cut.
Dawn needs to stop trying to fix things that are broken.
Dawn needs to stop breaking things.
Unfortunately, that list goes on and on.
But every now and then, we all owe it to ourselves to take a minute: look in the mirror, think on our life and say “not too shabby for Dawn.” (Well, you know, not Dawn. You should probably use your own name. Actually, I should also probably use my own name. But you get the gist.)
I am honestly doing the best that I can. I try. Everyday, I try. And I’ve had some pretty great successes with less and less resources.
So, as we’re closing out Women’s History Month, I’ve picked this poem by my favorite contemporary poet, Bassey Ikpi. It’s a funny, revealing ode to that which has made her…well…her. And as I often think she’s totally just a character I made up in my head to keep me laughing through my dreary workdays or the insomniatic nights, many of the stanzas ring wonderfully familiar: this is a poem for you, girl/midnight genius/sleep battling
There is so much clever wordplay and quotable lines, that I can read it again and again, and have. But the part I really love is where it flips the script on other poems that have been written celebrating the magic/mythical Woman.
this is not a poem praising particular shade of cliche/
brown sugar this/
or jujugoddesssexmagicqueen that
Nah, it’s about the women chilling on their couch, watching their shows on the DVR and cracking wise on the twitter.
I’m pretty fly. Ask about me!
Love poem to myself
This is a poem for the midnight genius
the before sunrise poet
building words on fatigue and hope
you battle sleep and head spin
hold faith that the world
will one day spin back into
an orbit that staccatos your rhythm
you back bend.
stretch simile into mixed metaphor
stitch laughter in the belly of broken
you joke and clever phrase twist
find joy in the ridiculous
like the world through your eyes
all fun & games and useless trivia
know it all
take everything and nothing seriously
my favorite kinda dork
absence of cool
beauty queen in brown paper bag
You miss Brooklyn
hope she misses you too
wish DC held you just as closely
but this is not a poem that longs for bridges
this is a poem for the mole on
right corner of smile
inside, upper, left thigh
this is not a poem for the men
who connect your dots
or those who neglect to
fuck the men who can’t love you
so you can fuck the men who do
this poem is for you
the first of it’s kind
let it cover you like
first verse written for the
last one who thought broke you
this is a poem for your legs
the heiroglyph of tomboy scars
the motorcycle exhaust burn
the iron that fell and grazed shin
for the calves crafted in track and dance
this is not a poem for the bruised heart
or cracked spirit
this is a poem for the healing
for the small pox scar on you left forearm
for the time you tried to Mary Poppins your ass off the roof of your house
there is a scar on your left knee
this poem is for that
for how fly you be
rocking pink pjs and purple pumps
for the fact that you can work
a stage, a hallway, a city sidewalk,
and park sandbox with the same
this is your poem
loyal friend poem
will do anything for your girls
for your son poem
for the stranger who looks like she needs a hug
this is your love poem
for the quick wit
and sharp tongue
this is not a poem praising particular shade of cliche
brown sugar this
or jujugoddesssexmagicqueen that
this is not a poem for the way the hips twist
or the mouth full and thick
this is a poem for the heart that
remains beating and loving
the spirit that breaks and mends in record time
this is a poem for
the days when the living is too
much like slow dying,
when a kiss on these lips
is as yesterday as falling in love
when no one has told you in weeks that you
for you, girl
perched on the edge
of regret and anticipation
laptop hot across aching knees
laughter coaxed from the belly
torn and stitched and torn and stitched
despite what the world expects or needs
this a poem for the all you have to offer
for doing the best you can
creating a world that keeps you
this is a poem for you,
post apocalyptic hopeful
something Octavia wrote
if you can survive this
you can survive anything
wear resilience like dust on ambition
The best advice I ever got…don’t be somebody you’re not.