Monthly Archives: January 2013

Genevieve’s Week 5: Slut

The steel in your spine is hard, your hands are cold. He’s a kid. Just a fucking kid, you chant, over and over. But it still hurts. Slut, the S-sound snaking its away across the room, slurping peach schnapps and blue curacaos until it finds its way to you, you in the peek-a-boo see-through top with your favorite magenta bra underneath, you with the discount heels, citrus wraparound sash that snugs into your ankle. He grins and no one looks. In the morning the liquor swish-spitting your system will convince you that you can change memories as easily as CDs – first Placido Domingo, then Jose Alfredo Jimenez. You drive the I-94 through gray haze and coughing cars, wipers singing softly, Amaneci otra vez entre tus brazos. Your eyeliner runs.

A hot shower laps your skin clean. Maybe you are a slut. Maybe you’re some other age’s lost Aphrodite, a fingernail gap between her front teeth, lisping gently, painfully oblivious to the nasal huffs and gentle eye rolls of her devotees. Maybe you are, you think, and the mirror fogs up.

So this is what you do. You find the shortest skirt in your closet, snap on the indigo rhinestone bra and step into three inch heels. Dim the lights and shut the blinds. There is no grand entrance – no cue, no thunderous drum roll for a goddess tiptoeing a line she never even drew. Slut.

The bass muffles your body. Your hips are pulled by an invisible cord – a knot in your navel, senseless loops and frayed ends running down your legs. Your arms are all elbows, hard points on hexagonal shapes, fractured light bending. You move, you move – snake beast, coyote yip. Keep moving. He has wrapped it up – your shoulder blades, your wanting, your ass, your tongue wrapped into pretty little packages that were never his to give away.

Hare rattle, starling’s screech. Don’t dissolve for him. Don’t shrug on over-sized and bulky sweaters, don’t you become nameless. Somewhere, silver fish still swim upstream and belly flop beneath the moon. Somewhere, you are still alive.

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I Am The Girl

So while trying once again to wrangle my beast of a manuscript, I noticed that I have quite a lot of female characters in my novel. As an exercise I tried to distill each girls essence into three sentences, loosely based around the tarot model of past, present and future.

Here’s what I came up with.

Ophelia

I am the girl with a soul like a star-gazer lily, and a mouth like an open rose. I am the girl who can line your skin with magic, embedded in ink. I am the girl who is certain to drown.

Keira

I am the girl with the spark and the tinder.  I am the girl who takes her beatings like a man. I am the girl who will be forced to believe in revenge.

Arabella

I am the girl with a heart born broken.  I am the girl dressed in cornflower blue. I am the girl who will get what she deserves.

Frankie (Francesca)

I am the girl from the black and white movies. I am the girl who wants you the most. I am the girl who is gone.

Perdita

I am the girl who was raised by the wild. I am the girl taking shots from the cacti. I am the girl with the healing hands.

I’ve also just noticed that all the names I’ve chosen for my girls end in ‘a’. Coincidence? Most definitely!

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Harnessing the Wild

This is quite an appropriate week for my first entry. I like to pretend I have control over my life and the various situations I inhabit, but I really live in a world of unknowns.

Thus, I exhibit my wildness in my most controlled creations. I must let go and let my inspiration stream through me, and I’m comfortable with my connection to whatever greater consciousness may reside within this plane (God, Universal Conscience, Mother Earth, Cap’n Crunch, etc.).

-Aidan

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Oh You Pretty Things

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For my girls

P.S Sorry these are so late, I’m currently using my iPhone as a modem :/

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Week 04: Girls, Theft

My mother said she wanted to make my last birthday in childhood special, so she drove three small children over a hundred miles to go to Marine World Africa USA. My seventh grade class had just taken a field trip there three months earlier. The concrete habitats so close to concrete freeways made the Pacific Ocean a distant memory. The smallness of the enclosures and the bigness of the mammals inside them made me want to steal something. Because we were straight-A students, we were able to convince ourselves that stealing would be a form of protest. So at a gift kiosk, I took a magnet shaped like an otter. As we walked around the park, it became apparent that her father had never tried to persuade her to keep a lost change purse that contained ten dollars in quarters. It had been my single greatest discovery in third grade. But I knew who the leather coin purse, in the shape of a moccasin, belonged to. The girl with blonde hair had always been mean to me. I remember when she brought the coin purse to class the first time, weeks earlier. She was showing it off to a crowd of our classmates, letting them all touch her new treasure. She had blond hair, was named after a mountain range spelled wrong, and claimed to be a quarter Navajo. I knew all about lies back then. I told kids at school I was born in Japan. I asked if I could hold it, and she grabbed it away from me, as though I was like Frank who didn’t bathe. She also shared her markers with everyone around her, except me, even though I sat immediately behind her. The day she forgot the coin purse, I knew she had ten dollars in quarters inside because she had been gloating about wanting to buy an ice cream at lunch, and I was glad she forgot. It didn’t have her name on it. I could claim it rightfully. It was more money than I had ever been given or earned. When I brought it home, my father made me dump it out and count the quarters. He said I could keep it. He said I’d be stupid to give it back, especially to someone like her. To this day, I am not sure if he was serious or if he was testing me, but the next morning, I gave it back to the girl whose parents had misspelled her name.

After having been able to walk away with the otter magnet in my pocket with no one noticing, I did not feel as vindicated as I thought I would. I had a fantasy of being apprehended and giving a speech about animal rights and how antithetical to the park’s mission of conservation it was to acquire and train wild animals. Being a straight-A student meant certain other straight-laced morals as well, and in the time it took us to take the magnet and walk a circle between the shark experience and beluga whales, my friend became sullen and withdrawn. I felt worse for her than even for myself, for I felt no guilt whatsoever, aside from bringing her in on my plan. I said that stealing a magnet was too small an act of protest, that it hadn’t effected the operations of the park at all, so I might as well put it back. And I did. I even told the cashier I had “accidentally” left with it earlier, and I was thanked instead of questioned.

Returning the magnet didn’t change my friend’s mood, though. She stopped being my friend after that anyway, and I didn’t really want to go back to Marine World Africa USA.

But my mom knew I loved animals. At this time, I wanted to be a veterinarian.

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The Woman Within

The Woman Within

She is beautiful. She is strong. She has a deep sadness. She has infinate knowledge. She is the woman within.

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by | January 29, 2013 · 9:09 am

Week Five: Wild

As some of you may know, I took some time off from writing my novel to do some research on shamanism and curanderismo. But, as you also probably know, “doing research” can be code for “freaking out about what the hell I’m trying to say to the world and balking at the fact that I’m even attempting to write a novel that encompasses these – let’s call them eclectic – belief systems.” The fifty pages I’d written for Francesca Lia Block’s novel writing class – and that’s not including several previous drafts of my own – seemed to taunt and mock me.

So I took a deep breath and started over. I asked myself one question: What is the theme/subject that I think is the most important in this book? And the answer that I came up with after writing several lengthy, personal essays about soul loss and retrieval, body image, physical vs emotional healing and, of course, love was (much to my surprise) only this: wildness.

We run ourselves ragged. In between work and school and attending social events, trying to build our homes and paychecks and keep the bonds of our relationships strong and secure, we grow tired. We forget that we are animals first. Our lives are dictated by hunger, seemingly base, physical needs and instinctual responses to our environment. No kidding, sometimes it takes all I have in me to not scream at a co-worker. Sometimes it takes everything in me to not walk out the front door and run through the forest, finally stretching my cramped, computer-hunched back and leaving this world far, far behind. Of course, reminding myself of certain creature comforts (in my case, hot chocolate and fuzzy slippers) usually stops me from performing such acts of lunacy. But a girl can fantasize.

So, are you wild? Where does the animal in you reside? Show me your inner savage, the garden in your heart overrun with weeds. Show me what it means to act on instinct, and instinct only – pay no attention to curious or baffled onlookers. Everyone has a beautiful beast pacing back and forth just beneath their ribcage. Show me yours.

-Genevieve

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