Genesisl 25:21: כא וַיֶּעְתַּר יִצְחָק לַיהוָה לְנֹכַח אִשְׁתּוֹ, כִּי עֲקָרָה הִוא; וַיֵּעָתֶר לוֹ יְהוָה, וַתַּהַר רִבְקָה אִשְׁתּוֹ. And Isaac entreated the LORD for his wife, because she was barren; and the LORD let Himself be entreated of him, and Rebekah his wife conceived.
The wind is cold between us; flames' shadows
paint the wall, and I remember the red when I bound you to my thighs.
Your arms were soft, silk chords to bind me to our bed.
Your lips tasted of cinnamon, on the night when I bound you to my thighs.
You tasted the dust, when he bound you to a bed of shadows -
I could taste the dirt on the skin around your neck, when I bound you to my thighs -
You told me I tasted of persimmons -hard and cold, like this wind
that hovers between us, now that I no longer bind you to my thighs.
Your lips kiss words I do not understand - you tell me you feel His presence,
hovering like a lover, waiting to bind you to His mercy -
Years ago, you kissed dust as your father's arms bound you
like the silk of our bed, and there He bound you to His mercy -
your first lover, an imageless God who binds me to you,
even now, when you have become unbound from my thighs,
and my body grows drier than these dratted desert breezes,
because you have become unbound from my thighs.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Tired
"I am too tired to move", she said, but his lips were already working their way in between her breasts. "Burrowing", she thought, "like those beavers in Chronicles of Narnia", and she wasn't quite sure why she thought of the reference. "I don't love you", she said. He shrugged. "What makes you think I love you?". The only answer was the night's silence. She could see the stars hanging, frozen, off of the blue bed of a night sky. "I wish I were like the stars", she thought, "nestled in sheets that hugged my body", but of course, who needed sheets when you had a man's body? "Men make the best blankets", she said later, when they were both in bed. He nodded sleepily, and she felt grateful for his weight beside her.
And this is the point where the high of insomnia turns into sheer tiredness, like ripped lace, or something, in this giant book of metaphors I seem to have forgotten, in this longing for sleep the way virgins long for sex, and all I am thinking of now is the first chapter of kings, where david gets a young virgin to warm his aging body.
What did she think when she shared his bed? What did he think when he felt her beside him, and no longer felt the familiar rising between the legs? I want to hug him then, to let him cry, to put his cheek to my breasts and whisper that it will be ok, that he is king, that he is a man, because to be a man is to be more than king, because what could be more beautiful than to conquer the land of a woman's body?
Right now my land remains unoccupied - waiting for a new tenant, I suppose, or maybe an owner, even - baal. A word that means husband, owner, man, and god. In ancient near eastern society, were they not the same?
Enough with the feminist critique. It rattles my ears, like pearls left out in a cardboard box, being shaken by a young boy who does not understand their worth, but a woman'sn worth is beyond pearls, even - or maybe beyond rubies.
Who can tell? I wear neither to bed - only a strip of lace, and a blanket of tiredness to cover this body, these legs that have walked today, these hands that have held hands and this mouth that has smiled, these fingers that have typed these words, only to slowly disentangle from the keyboard like an abandoning lover before morning.
And this is the point where the high of insomnia turns into sheer tiredness, like ripped lace, or something, in this giant book of metaphors I seem to have forgotten, in this longing for sleep the way virgins long for sex, and all I am thinking of now is the first chapter of kings, where david gets a young virgin to warm his aging body.
What did she think when she shared his bed? What did he think when he felt her beside him, and no longer felt the familiar rising between the legs? I want to hug him then, to let him cry, to put his cheek to my breasts and whisper that it will be ok, that he is king, that he is a man, because to be a man is to be more than king, because what could be more beautiful than to conquer the land of a woman's body?
Right now my land remains unoccupied - waiting for a new tenant, I suppose, or maybe an owner, even - baal. A word that means husband, owner, man, and god. In ancient near eastern society, were they not the same?
Enough with the feminist critique. It rattles my ears, like pearls left out in a cardboard box, being shaken by a young boy who does not understand their worth, but a woman'sn worth is beyond pearls, even - or maybe beyond rubies.
Who can tell? I wear neither to bed - only a strip of lace, and a blanket of tiredness to cover this body, these legs that have walked today, these hands that have held hands and this mouth that has smiled, these fingers that have typed these words, only to slowly disentangle from the keyboard like an abandoning lover before morning.
Monday, November 21, 2011
For the Sake of Full Disclosure
I did once discuss Georgia O'Keefee's armpit hair with a romantic partner when the two of us were in a cab on the way to the opera. In case you are wondering, our relationship survived the experience.
Disclaimer
I really resent it when people assume fiction is autobiography - yet, because I am a girl who enjoys sniffing (legal) things, and likes Georgia O'Keeffe, as well as a college graduate who has been mistaken for a lesbian and is in fact a feminist, I feel it necessary to post a disclaimer that the story from the previous post is fiction, not autobiography. I know I should not give in to the people who assume these things, but at the end of the day the thought of someone thinking that's a scene from my life, when its not, bothers me. Then again, a writer shouldn't really cares whether or not people think she's crazy, becaue it can discourage her from taking risks.
Sabotage (A College Romance)
"You have gorilla pits", he teased. She laughed. "I told you I was a lesbian." "Actually, you told me you were a feminist. I told you you were a lesbian", he said, reaching for her bra. "You are aware that lesbians don't take their bras off for men?" she asked, resisting. "Actually, I thought lesbians don't wear bras", he replied, undoing the clasp. " "Did you know there are these nude pictures of Georgia O'Keeffe, by Steiglitz, where she has armpit hair?" she asked. She could feel his lips on her nipple. "Would you fuck her?" He stopped, disentangled. "What? Who?" "Georgia O'Keeffe" "I'm not a necro", he said. "Good. Just checking", she teased, a smile playing in the corners of her mouth. She waited for him to resume, but he just stood there, still crouching slightly. "Get up" she said, in what she hoped was a sexy voice. He got up, and she kissed him, her left palm leaning on the rim of a sink that smelled of flowers and pubic hair.
The next morning, he would catch her sniffing the sheets when he went to brush his teeth. "I always wanted to know the smell of man-sweat on linen", she said. "You're crazy", he replied, but she knew from his laughter that he found it charming. She could not know that their breakup would smell of tears and strawberries.
The next morning, he would catch her sniffing the sheets when he went to brush his teeth. "I always wanted to know the smell of man-sweat on linen", she said. "You're crazy", he replied, but she knew from his laughter that he found it charming. She could not know that their breakup would smell of tears and strawberries.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Night Time
Your hands were bigger than the moon when they circled my thighs,
and my skin was soft in the light that spread over freshly laundered sheets
the color of butter and moonlight.
Like the tide, I drifted in and out of your shore.
The sand has dried up and the moon has fallen.
You have left me stranded, here on this island of metaphors,
as if words could encompass the pain that has fallen between us
like silence.
and my skin was soft in the light that spread over freshly laundered sheets
the color of butter and moonlight.
Like the tide, I drifted in and out of your shore.
The sand has dried up and the moon has fallen.
You have left me stranded, here on this island of metaphors,
as if words could encompass the pain that has fallen between us
like silence.
No Woman No Cry/Nao Chore Mais
A Short Preface: The Title is based on the Bob Marley/Gilberto Gil songs - the Gil song is a remake of the Marley song. Since some of you know a bit about my life, I feel it necessary to say that while this is very loosely based on my life, it is fiction, and in no way resembles my life closely enough to be called autobiographical. Also, for the record, I take the privacy of my relationships very seriously, despite my blogging habit. I wrote this to practice writing a short story that actually followed some kind of plot, since that is one of my greatest challenges as a writer. So its very much a work in progress that I might use as material to turn into something else later on.
*********************************************************************************
"What does it matter? We are dead to you", she said, turning away with a flash of her hair. In her hand, she held a remote control that was poised like a projectile missile, ready to attack the first who dared to approach her thinning body.
"This is real life Mom. Not some kind of telenovella." The voice was flat, like underbaked bread.
"Where do you think they get telenovellas from? Real life! This is real life!"
She laughed. "This is your life, not mine."
"And what is yours then?"
"Well, let's see...I think right now I'm going to take my bag and go fuck my Arab boyfriend. Then I'm going to go to a bar and get wasted, maybe a little high. You like it when I fuck Arabs mom, don't you?"
The remote missed its mark. She laughed. "You should be careful about throwing things. One of these days I might learn how to throw back. But hey, at least you're not hitting me anymore, right?"
The door slammed behind her. The night was cool, and she could feel the fall air ruffling her brown hair against her cheeks. She pulled her jacket tighter around her. The streets were full of laughing people coming back from the opera. The women were wearing heels, their hair done up in sleek bones her hands had never seemed to master. The men were wearing suits and the smiles of those who expect to get laid. She walked up the steps of Lincoln Center to look at the waterfall - the water was shaped like mermaids today, and she could see the waves dancing, showing off for a crowd of tourists to enamored of the photos they would put on Facebook to pay any attention to the way one stream was showing off her liquid-clear hips, while another bobbed her thighs. As for the opera-lovers, they were too enamored of each other to feel the life in the circles of water that stood in the center of the plaza. A breeze came up, and she rushed into the Starbucks across the street, where she ordered a vanilla latte, opened her laptop, and began pouring all of her venom onto Facebook. The flatness of her voice in real life was replaced by a virtual scream. She looked at her watch. Half an hour and she'd head over to Jerry's.
By the time she did so, she was feeling slightly calmer, as if her anger were a snake bite that Facebook had sucked the venom out of her, "the way Roberto Benigni sucks that woman's thigh in "Life is Beautiful"", she thought, feeling herself grow slightly horny - which on the whole, was not an inappropriate feeling to have on the way to one's boyfriend, she reminded herself. When she got to Jerry's however, she could tell from the minute he opened the door that he was pissed.
"Did you write about me on my blog?" he asked.
"Yeah. But no on reads that blog - its just like, my friends, and you."
"Oh good. Because it's not like I know your friends or anything, not like I might be embarrassed."
"I'm sorry, ok? I won't do it again."
"What the hell? That stuff was in cyberspace - who knows who read it - you can't just take that back! Is our relationships some kind of refuse that you need to shit out onto the world-wide web in your constant spasms of vebal diarhea?"
"Jesus, Jerry - that is probably the most disgusting metaphor I've ever heard. And I write porn for a living - I've read the Marquis de Sade, for God's sake!"
"Well I'm sorry my metaphor isn't up to your literary standards."
"That's not what I meant - I" she sat down on a chair and buried her head in her hand, "This isn't working. I don't know what this is - but it isn't working - and I want it to work, because I love you, but -" She was crying. He walked over to her and stroked her hair. "Shh!", he said, "Shh!" But they knew it was over, and when she walked out of his apartment half an hour later, she felt oddly free - and still slightly horny. "Damn. We should have at least had break-up sex", she thought.
When she got home, her mother was washing dishes. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Don't nothing me. I'm your mother. I know. Somebody hurt my baby." With that, she began to walk around the kitchen, soapy knife in hand, crying hysterically, "Somebody hurt my baby. Somebody hurt my baby.", like some sort of mantra.
"God, this woman should be meds", the daughter thought, but she pulled her mother to her breasts, and stroked her graying hair, whispering, "Shh! Nao chore Mae, nao chore", and she could feel the slight shivering of the head beneath her hands. She wondered if this was what Jerry had felt like, stroking the hair of a woman he no longer cared about in the way he had before, but she also knew that when she walked out of her mother's apartment, she would not be free of the bond that tied them - she would never be free, never move on to find a new mother, a new body to keep her warm at night. She felt her body letting go of her mother's body. "I'm going to bed", she said.
"You're my life. I don't sleep at night - I stay up, worrying about you." The words were feirce in their passion - "but what is passion if not posession", the daughter wondered? She walked away, not because she wanted to ignore, but because she could not think of an honest response.
"Frederico Fellini once said "Happiness is being able to tell the truth without hurting others", she thought bitterly, as she lay down and cried.
*********************************************************************************
"What does it matter? We are dead to you", she said, turning away with a flash of her hair. In her hand, she held a remote control that was poised like a projectile missile, ready to attack the first who dared to approach her thinning body.
"This is real life Mom. Not some kind of telenovella." The voice was flat, like underbaked bread.
"Where do you think they get telenovellas from? Real life! This is real life!"
She laughed. "This is your life, not mine."
"And what is yours then?"
"Well, let's see...I think right now I'm going to take my bag and go fuck my Arab boyfriend. Then I'm going to go to a bar and get wasted, maybe a little high. You like it when I fuck Arabs mom, don't you?"
The remote missed its mark. She laughed. "You should be careful about throwing things. One of these days I might learn how to throw back. But hey, at least you're not hitting me anymore, right?"
The door slammed behind her. The night was cool, and she could feel the fall air ruffling her brown hair against her cheeks. She pulled her jacket tighter around her. The streets were full of laughing people coming back from the opera. The women were wearing heels, their hair done up in sleek bones her hands had never seemed to master. The men were wearing suits and the smiles of those who expect to get laid. She walked up the steps of Lincoln Center to look at the waterfall - the water was shaped like mermaids today, and she could see the waves dancing, showing off for a crowd of tourists to enamored of the photos they would put on Facebook to pay any attention to the way one stream was showing off her liquid-clear hips, while another bobbed her thighs. As for the opera-lovers, they were too enamored of each other to feel the life in the circles of water that stood in the center of the plaza. A breeze came up, and she rushed into the Starbucks across the street, where she ordered a vanilla latte, opened her laptop, and began pouring all of her venom onto Facebook. The flatness of her voice in real life was replaced by a virtual scream. She looked at her watch. Half an hour and she'd head over to Jerry's.
By the time she did so, she was feeling slightly calmer, as if her anger were a snake bite that Facebook had sucked the venom out of her, "the way Roberto Benigni sucks that woman's thigh in "Life is Beautiful"", she thought, feeling herself grow slightly horny - which on the whole, was not an inappropriate feeling to have on the way to one's boyfriend, she reminded herself. When she got to Jerry's however, she could tell from the minute he opened the door that he was pissed.
"Did you write about me on my blog?" he asked.
"Yeah. But no on reads that blog - its just like, my friends, and you."
"Oh good. Because it's not like I know your friends or anything, not like I might be embarrassed."
"I'm sorry, ok? I won't do it again."
"What the hell? That stuff was in cyberspace - who knows who read it - you can't just take that back! Is our relationships some kind of refuse that you need to shit out onto the world-wide web in your constant spasms of vebal diarhea?"
"Jesus, Jerry - that is probably the most disgusting metaphor I've ever heard. And I write porn for a living - I've read the Marquis de Sade, for God's sake!"
"Well I'm sorry my metaphor isn't up to your literary standards."
"That's not what I meant - I" she sat down on a chair and buried her head in her hand, "This isn't working. I don't know what this is - but it isn't working - and I want it to work, because I love you, but -" She was crying. He walked over to her and stroked her hair. "Shh!", he said, "Shh!" But they knew it was over, and when she walked out of his apartment half an hour later, she felt oddly free - and still slightly horny. "Damn. We should have at least had break-up sex", she thought.
When she got home, her mother was washing dishes. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Don't nothing me. I'm your mother. I know. Somebody hurt my baby." With that, she began to walk around the kitchen, soapy knife in hand, crying hysterically, "Somebody hurt my baby. Somebody hurt my baby.", like some sort of mantra.
"God, this woman should be meds", the daughter thought, but she pulled her mother to her breasts, and stroked her graying hair, whispering, "Shh! Nao chore Mae, nao chore", and she could feel the slight shivering of the head beneath her hands. She wondered if this was what Jerry had felt like, stroking the hair of a woman he no longer cared about in the way he had before, but she also knew that when she walked out of her mother's apartment, she would not be free of the bond that tied them - she would never be free, never move on to find a new mother, a new body to keep her warm at night. She felt her body letting go of her mother's body. "I'm going to bed", she said.
"You're my life. I don't sleep at night - I stay up, worrying about you." The words were feirce in their passion - "but what is passion if not posession", the daughter wondered? She walked away, not because she wanted to ignore, but because she could not think of an honest response.
"Frederico Fellini once said "Happiness is being able to tell the truth without hurting others", she thought bitterly, as she lay down and cried.
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