Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Writing Club – January 10, 2007
Write about one who has left and regretted their departure.
His Levi's always fit perfectly. Shaping the curve of his bottom the way God would surely have intended. I loved the way he would paint all afternoon on Sundays. I would help him wash the brushes. He was a starving artist living on love, but somehow, I always thought he would grow out of it. He would grow tired of never having cash to spare and mooching of the woman who loved him too much. It was this free spirit that I loved, and loathed. I was jealous of his ability to break away from social constraints and fulfill his passion. I was the rigid cardigan wearing freak from New Hampshire. I wanted to be him, but instead of changing my ways, I tried to control him and he ran. I awoke to find him gone, having left only a painting.....of a caged bird being released. The only clothes he left behind were the ones I had given him. The ones I forced on him. That was the day. That was the day that I decided to start painting and take off the cardigan that would strangle me if I wasn't careful. I painted every day. I wore my hair down. I started reading Robert Frost on summer nights and wearing flip flops as much as I could. My freely wiggling toes were always grateful. I would write about him in my journal and wonder if I would ever see him again. I walked past a gallery on a Monday evening, wearing my new found Bohemian uniform. A collage of a all the trappings of a typical preppie existence was surrounded by flames. He was there. He was staring at me as he walked up to the window. His sweater vest and perfect hair? He came outside to join me. This was the moment. He would regret his departure. He said he had changed; this was his gallery. His new life. His new life with sweater vests and golf and BMWs and those people who buy really expensive paintings. He professed his regret; his love for me made him change. His world was now 'perfect' and he longed to have me in it. My life had turned into so much more than that; I will never regret leaving him standing outside his gallery.....
Write about someone who misinterprets a compliment
Internal monologue, troubled female youth 1986
What a bitch! Horrid mistress of malcontent! My step mother paid 200 dollars for me to look this way and she says in her snide bitchy-McBitcherson tone “Nice hair”. Wench. But alas, she is the most popular girl in school. Her approval will make or break my existence. I need a solution. Fight back the tears. Suck it up you weakling. Jessica probably thinks I am fat too. Whore. She is a whore with no soul. She is the one with the bad hair; those perfect and grotesque waves that frame her face like a princess happily waving to throngs of supporters. I'll show her. A perm! Where is the box? I put the box under the sink? Where is my fucking box of home perm!!!??? Get it together. What would Molly Ringwald do?? She would get it the fuck together and get the guy with a sports car. Focus. God damnit. These tiny rollers. I wonder if I should call Jessica? Who the hell does she think she is judging my hair? Winged beast of Satan with a stupid hat that she bought at that new store. The Gap? The gap of what? I can't believe she thinks I am fat. Scalp is burning. Oh my god, how long has it been. I left it in too long!!!! My life is ending. What can I do with this ball of frizz? OMG. FUCK FUCK FUCK. 200 dollars. My hair was great and I had to screw it up? JESSICA IS SUCH A BITCH. I should call her and ask what she is wearing tomorrow. I have to wear my hat (obviously) If she is going to wear her hat then I can't wear mine. Oh my god...I look horrible. Scissors. That is the only way. God I can't choose: wrists ? Hair ? Wrists? Hair? Wrists. Dumb ass! Don't go for the wrists. How can you live a spiteful existence and make Jessica wish she was you if you are dead? Leave the hair alone. Harden the fuck up you weakling. Go to bed. She is the one that is fat. “Nice hair” I will show you 'nice hair' Where is my Seventeen magazine? How can I sleep without reading my horoscope? All I have is fried hair and a fat ass.
Next morning, wake up to phone ringing:
Jessica! Hi! Oh my god!
No, I am wearing the legwarmers and my hat.
See you at school.
I hate that bitch.
When I first told my family about ------- they didn't believe me.
When I first told my family I was a lesbian they didn't believe me. Why wouldn't they? I am an AR-TEEST. I am a vegetarian. I like Birkenstocks....ALOT. I shop at REI. Ani Defranco wrote the soundtrack of my tortured life. At 19, I truly believe that I have matured much past my years. Could that be why? Could I have matured past men? I remember that day in human sexuality. I was reflecting on my organic shade-grown coffee wondering if the cotton shirt I was wearing was really made with sustainable, organic cotton. The professor blathering on and on about alternative lifestyles in the background. I was thinking “What does she know about alternative lifestyles? I am a vegan born and raised in the heartland. That is what my family believes is an 'alternative lifestyle.” I sat and pondered about the Indigo Girls and wondered what I would wear to the Blue Fems – the cover band. The homework assignment was to go to a place where you felt sexually outside of yourself – perhaps a gay bar if strait or a Catholic church if you are a drag queen homosexual. Two birds with one stone. The concert would likely be a hot spot for lesbians, right? My vegan team and I decked ourselves out in our finest broomstick skirts and sandals. I picked out my best handmade earrings. They were handmade with bones harvested from a deer that had died of natural causes in the forrest. A tribute to nature. My boyfriend called to see what I was up to and ask if I wanted to hang out. I obviously said no and that I would not respond to his insipid male need to repress me. Although I love being naked underneath him, I have no desire to have some man feel he is above me. My girlfriends and I were all in our first year and this was our first real college concert and we wanted to make sure we would fit in with all of the really unique people that attended our cozy liberal arts school. We walked in, long skirts flowing, tousled hair 2 days from a shampoo.....all these unique lesbians. They look so happy. I am special like them. I must be a lesbian.