Slept until ten.
Must be a record.
No, that would be
the day
That I slept until noon.
Working with children
is a humbling
Experience
that happens to give you
a backache.
My feet
are no bigger than those
of an
Australopithecus
named Lucy.
Eight days more
and I'll never
survive
the wait and the cold
hands.
When faced with writing
a paper or two
it seems that I write
poems
and not haikus.
My mind is such a weird place to be sometimes.
WolfGrrl
Showing posts with label imagination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label imagination. Show all posts
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
the Nightmare
I want to tell you a story.
Thirty minutes ago, before I was woken by the natural violence of a thunderstorm, I had a dream. It began, as most of them do, in an ordinary time and place - in this case, walking back from Franklin Street with a group of friends.
We were doing all the things we usually do: talking, laughing, bickering. In the midst of all the hilarity, I noticed something. Certain individuals on the street were being abused. Passerby would spit on them; ignore them; force them to step off the sidewalk onto the street. A girl I know from school (not a friend) raced by yelling something. It's been a long time since I had violent (and I mean violent) dreams. I hope this doesn't mark a return.
The girl I knew was screaming about gays. Specifically, a more profane version of "Off with their heads." My friends didn't react beyond our conversation turning towards Gay Rights. (I'm sure this is a combination of my roommate and Amendment One. But still.) I, however, was horrified and enraged.
As a non-combative person in real life, my behavior in the dream was bizarre enough that it frightened me. I had no fear. When the scenery changed and I was coming out of class, I witnessed a beheading. By guillotine. It took place in one of the more famous locations on campus, a fountain students (and faculty) like to wade in. I saw the crowd first, asked what was going on, and heard the cheer and saw the flash of a pale watermelon splattered with gore. Right then I felt nauseated. No one noticed.
The rest of my story consists of little moments like that; the disentegration of society as I knew it. I was accosted in the bathroom by the same girl I'd seen on Franklin Street, demanding that I join her in prosecuting the filthy unnaturals. I took her specifically what she could do with that (and herself). But she was far from the worst.
I visited a friend, and heard some of the most abusive language ever, directed at LGBTQ individuals. I called him on his BS - asked him what the f*** he was saying. He said he'd sit next to me and say it, so I could hear him better. I punched him. I had no fear.
I remember, above all, lacking fear and being full of rage. I am a champion of "Live and let live." I don't want people to ask me questions, and in return I'm hesitant to broach anyone's privacy. But in this dream I was so enraged by the violence directed - campus-wide, even by staff and administrators - at the LGBTQ community that I acted. I called people on their crap. On the bus; crossing campus; in the dorms; in the showers and the toilets and the locker rooms. I fought, and for a non-combative Teacup Human, I did a damn good job.
What frightened me, above all, was how normal it seemed. I like to think I live in a pretty tolerant city, and that I attend a famously tolerant university. But this dream was a dark reflection of that world and a literal wake-up call. I can't describe to you what I felt in this dream: fury, fear, sadness, confusion, disgust. The words are too thin to capture the depth of those emotions. I was transcendent. I was not afraid to die, and I came very close several times: a mob of students and faculty with knives and guns, and the Franklin St. Girl, who was prepared to shoot me if I didn't join her cause, right there in the bathroom, surrounded by seven or eight other girls I recognized.
There was no question for me which side I stood on - something I find incredible. In this dream, this nightmare, this world-that-could-be, I stood up for something I felt was wrong...and I did so honestly. Selflessly. (I won't toot my own horn after this, I promise.) But Reader, imagine what the world would be like if more people had no fear. I fought a football player for God's sake. And I won. For me, this was definitely a nightmare (someone always dies, usually me). Yet at the same time, in a creepy, twisted way, this was a dream of personal emancipation. It was a reflection of who I've come to be inside, and who I may eventually be outside. I am timid; I am conflict-shy. I am live-and-let-live.
But I don't have to be. My temper is an ugly thing; so ugly it frightens me. In dreams, there are no rules, and there is no fear. It's only when I wake up that I'm afraid. I'm blessed that I don't live in fear. I have. I might do so again, one day. But this...this is progress. I can see the cracks in my world, the facade of gentility and reality. My roommate fights for the rights of those who can't defend themselves. I should be so lucky to have someone that passionate championing me.
Be me, Reader. Be brave. Stand up for the ones who might otherwise die. You've only got your life to lose; the rest is collateral damage. We live and love, but neither of those are meaingful without some investment. Be the Teacup Human who told a thuggish football player to shut his f****** mouth and sit down. (Find a better way to phrase it though.) Be the Teacup Human who grabbed a girl in the dorm restroom and said to her, "This is not you. I know you. I don't like you, but I know this isn't you. Think about what you're saying, then try to say it while thinking."
Please, please don't let our world become this. Don't let people die by La Guillotine. Once was enough. One long, bloody execution was enough. It was my nightmare; don't make it any more of a reality.
WolfGrrl
Thirty minutes ago, before I was woken by the natural violence of a thunderstorm, I had a dream. It began, as most of them do, in an ordinary time and place - in this case, walking back from Franklin Street with a group of friends.
We were doing all the things we usually do: talking, laughing, bickering. In the midst of all the hilarity, I noticed something. Certain individuals on the street were being abused. Passerby would spit on them; ignore them; force them to step off the sidewalk onto the street. A girl I know from school (not a friend) raced by yelling something. It's been a long time since I had violent (and I mean violent) dreams. I hope this doesn't mark a return.
The girl I knew was screaming about gays. Specifically, a more profane version of "Off with their heads." My friends didn't react beyond our conversation turning towards Gay Rights. (I'm sure this is a combination of my roommate and Amendment One. But still.) I, however, was horrified and enraged.
As a non-combative person in real life, my behavior in the dream was bizarre enough that it frightened me. I had no fear. When the scenery changed and I was coming out of class, I witnessed a beheading. By guillotine. It took place in one of the more famous locations on campus, a fountain students (and faculty) like to wade in. I saw the crowd first, asked what was going on, and heard the cheer and saw the flash of a pale watermelon splattered with gore. Right then I felt nauseated. No one noticed.
The rest of my story consists of little moments like that; the disentegration of society as I knew it. I was accosted in the bathroom by the same girl I'd seen on Franklin Street, demanding that I join her in prosecuting the filthy unnaturals. I took her specifically what she could do with that (and herself). But she was far from the worst.
I visited a friend, and heard some of the most abusive language ever, directed at LGBTQ individuals. I called him on his BS - asked him what the f*** he was saying. He said he'd sit next to me and say it, so I could hear him better. I punched him. I had no fear.
I remember, above all, lacking fear and being full of rage. I am a champion of "Live and let live." I don't want people to ask me questions, and in return I'm hesitant to broach anyone's privacy. But in this dream I was so enraged by the violence directed - campus-wide, even by staff and administrators - at the LGBTQ community that I acted. I called people on their crap. On the bus; crossing campus; in the dorms; in the showers and the toilets and the locker rooms. I fought, and for a non-combative Teacup Human, I did a damn good job.
What frightened me, above all, was how normal it seemed. I like to think I live in a pretty tolerant city, and that I attend a famously tolerant university. But this dream was a dark reflection of that world and a literal wake-up call. I can't describe to you what I felt in this dream: fury, fear, sadness, confusion, disgust. The words are too thin to capture the depth of those emotions. I was transcendent. I was not afraid to die, and I came very close several times: a mob of students and faculty with knives and guns, and the Franklin St. Girl, who was prepared to shoot me if I didn't join her cause, right there in the bathroom, surrounded by seven or eight other girls I recognized.
There was no question for me which side I stood on - something I find incredible. In this dream, this nightmare, this world-that-could-be, I stood up for something I felt was wrong...and I did so honestly. Selflessly. (I won't toot my own horn after this, I promise.) But Reader, imagine what the world would be like if more people had no fear. I fought a football player for God's sake. And I won. For me, this was definitely a nightmare (someone always dies, usually me). Yet at the same time, in a creepy, twisted way, this was a dream of personal emancipation. It was a reflection of who I've come to be inside, and who I may eventually be outside. I am timid; I am conflict-shy. I am live-and-let-live.
But I don't have to be. My temper is an ugly thing; so ugly it frightens me. In dreams, there are no rules, and there is no fear. It's only when I wake up that I'm afraid. I'm blessed that I don't live in fear. I have. I might do so again, one day. But this...this is progress. I can see the cracks in my world, the facade of gentility and reality. My roommate fights for the rights of those who can't defend themselves. I should be so lucky to have someone that passionate championing me.
Be me, Reader. Be brave. Stand up for the ones who might otherwise die. You've only got your life to lose; the rest is collateral damage. We live and love, but neither of those are meaingful without some investment. Be the Teacup Human who told a thuggish football player to shut his f****** mouth and sit down. (Find a better way to phrase it though.) Be the Teacup Human who grabbed a girl in the dorm restroom and said to her, "This is not you. I know you. I don't like you, but I know this isn't you. Think about what you're saying, then try to say it while thinking."
Please, please don't let our world become this. Don't let people die by La Guillotine. Once was enough. One long, bloody execution was enough. It was my nightmare; don't make it any more of a reality.
WolfGrrl
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Paper Doors
No, this post doesn't involve the doors of Japanese hotels, as parodied in an episode of the Simpsons. Although it may seem rather an odd topic for my first post of 2012, I have nothing more interesting to talk about right now than my complete absorption with and adoration of BOOKS.
Now, to be fair, I don't love all books equally. Non-fiction, for the most part, is deadly dull (escapades of famous celebrities, true crime novels, and books about WWII and British aristocracy notwithstanding) and I've never been able to stomach pure sci-fi. I enjoy Romance (surprise surprise), Young Adult fiction, historical fiction (usually) and fantasy. Yes, I read girl books. What else can be expected of...ahem, a girl? Although I did read all of George. R. R. Martin's novels (published to that point) before HBO commissioned the series (also very good, but very HBOish, if you know what I mean). Right now, as I enjoy the last week of my winter break, I have an ever-increasing stack of books demanding my attention and cluttering up my bed, floor, and desk. The bookshelf became a lost cause years ago.
I am notoriously protective of my books, and this causes my sister endless irritation. But because I am more emotionally involved when I read than any other time of my life, I have a hard time sharing my 'doorway-to-another-world' with anyone else. It feels like a violation of my emotional boundaries. (And don't judge me, I can be as eccentric as I want: I'm a writer).
Books, for me, are both an escape and a playground. I vacation in the worlds they open for me, I make friends and learn incredible life lessons. I learned to be observant from reading Nancy Drew stories as a child, and I learned about interpersonal relationships (on all levels) from reading romance novels through high school. You'd be surprised how successful common sense and a bit of conventional wisdom is when applied to real-life scenarioes; after all, romance authors have to make some things universal in order for their books to sell! Perhaps because I have a difficult time opening myself up to others in the real world, it's easier for me to find a release for those feelings in literature. I doubt anyone who doesn't read has such an ecclectic and entertaining group of friends as I do.
I learned to write from reading. My parents tell the story thusly: as a child, it wasn't that I couldn't read, but more that I saw no reason to when I could get either of them (or a friend from school, a teacher, grandparent, etc.) to read to me. However, once I got bored waiting on someone to take the time to read what I wanted, I didn't waste any time. From Ten Apples Up on Top and Dr. Seuss, I moved rapidly to Nate the Great, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I was reading The Mists of Avalon at eleven. (Not to boast or anything.) And I was only about seven or eight when I started my first grand epic: a story about me and my pet squirrrel. My vocabulary was ridiculously advanced, even if my grammar and spelling were...creative is the kindest word; atrocious probably the most accurate.
In sixth grade I took a writing class and finally discovered, yes, you can write something other than the usual what-I-did-last-summer. I've been tapping away at my computer ever since, though I spent the first year and half writing in impossibly small print on lined notebook paper and a clipboard. Go figure. Now I count my computer as a necessity, and woe to the person who breaks, borrows, or steals it: I will hunt you down and string you up by your intestines. My life is in this clever little machine, and among its binary codes and files you can see the evolution of my character and my mind.
Reading and writing go hand in hand for me. They are what calm me down, wind me up, release me and chain me to this world. I am grounded by my ability to wrench out whatever's troubling me and splatter it on paper; I am freed by the paper doors that collectively weigh three times what I do.
Those of you familiar with the Pixar film Monsters Inc. will remember the rows of closet doors used to get the monsters from one child's bedroom to another. I think of my books as doors to other worlds, or the means by which I visit friends who've been with me since I was young and stupid(er). My books are mementoes of my journey and have the power to evoke memories and feelings I've otherwise forgotten. I can remember what I read obsessively my first year of real school (age eleven; Anne McCaffery's The Dragonriders of Pern series). I remember when I discovered Nora Roberts' novels (freshman year of high school). Any reader is familiar with time-travel; it happens every time you crack open a book and give your attention to the words on the page. These are my worlds; they have claimed me more strongly than this one, and I have claimed them. Unequivocably.
My sister is never getting her copy of The Host back, Twi-hards and Stephenie Meyer prejudices be damned. Howl's Moving Castle is in here too, somewhere.
Happy New Year!
WolfGrrl
Now, to be fair, I don't love all books equally. Non-fiction, for the most part, is deadly dull (escapades of famous celebrities, true crime novels, and books about WWII and British aristocracy notwithstanding) and I've never been able to stomach pure sci-fi. I enjoy Romance (surprise surprise), Young Adult fiction, historical fiction (usually) and fantasy. Yes, I read girl books. What else can be expected of...ahem, a girl? Although I did read all of George. R. R. Martin's novels (published to that point) before HBO commissioned the series (also very good, but very HBOish, if you know what I mean). Right now, as I enjoy the last week of my winter break, I have an ever-increasing stack of books demanding my attention and cluttering up my bed, floor, and desk. The bookshelf became a lost cause years ago.
I am notoriously protective of my books, and this causes my sister endless irritation. But because I am more emotionally involved when I read than any other time of my life, I have a hard time sharing my 'doorway-to-another-world' with anyone else. It feels like a violation of my emotional boundaries. (And don't judge me, I can be as eccentric as I want: I'm a writer).
Books, for me, are both an escape and a playground. I vacation in the worlds they open for me, I make friends and learn incredible life lessons. I learned to be observant from reading Nancy Drew stories as a child, and I learned about interpersonal relationships (on all levels) from reading romance novels through high school. You'd be surprised how successful common sense and a bit of conventional wisdom is when applied to real-life scenarioes; after all, romance authors have to make some things universal in order for their books to sell! Perhaps because I have a difficult time opening myself up to others in the real world, it's easier for me to find a release for those feelings in literature. I doubt anyone who doesn't read has such an ecclectic and entertaining group of friends as I do.
I learned to write from reading. My parents tell the story thusly: as a child, it wasn't that I couldn't read, but more that I saw no reason to when I could get either of them (or a friend from school, a teacher, grandparent, etc.) to read to me. However, once I got bored waiting on someone to take the time to read what I wanted, I didn't waste any time. From Ten Apples Up on Top and Dr. Seuss, I moved rapidly to Nate the Great, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I was reading The Mists of Avalon at eleven. (Not to boast or anything.) And I was only about seven or eight when I started my first grand epic: a story about me and my pet squirrrel. My vocabulary was ridiculously advanced, even if my grammar and spelling were...creative is the kindest word; atrocious probably the most accurate.
In sixth grade I took a writing class and finally discovered, yes, you can write something other than the usual what-I-did-last-summer. I've been tapping away at my computer ever since, though I spent the first year and half writing in impossibly small print on lined notebook paper and a clipboard. Go figure. Now I count my computer as a necessity, and woe to the person who breaks, borrows, or steals it: I will hunt you down and string you up by your intestines. My life is in this clever little machine, and among its binary codes and files you can see the evolution of my character and my mind.
Reading and writing go hand in hand for me. They are what calm me down, wind me up, release me and chain me to this world. I am grounded by my ability to wrench out whatever's troubling me and splatter it on paper; I am freed by the paper doors that collectively weigh three times what I do.
Those of you familiar with the Pixar film Monsters Inc. will remember the rows of closet doors used to get the monsters from one child's bedroom to another. I think of my books as doors to other worlds, or the means by which I visit friends who've been with me since I was young and stupid(er). My books are mementoes of my journey and have the power to evoke memories and feelings I've otherwise forgotten. I can remember what I read obsessively my first year of real school (age eleven; Anne McCaffery's The Dragonriders of Pern series). I remember when I discovered Nora Roberts' novels (freshman year of high school). Any reader is familiar with time-travel; it happens every time you crack open a book and give your attention to the words on the page. These are my worlds; they have claimed me more strongly than this one, and I have claimed them. Unequivocably.
My sister is never getting her copy of The Host back, Twi-hards and Stephenie Meyer prejudices be damned. Howl's Moving Castle is in here too, somewhere.
Happy New Year!
WolfGrrl
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