Word Confetti

She often woke with words in her head. Bassoon, cancan and  Fara Verto  (the last being a spell from Harry Potter to transform an animal into a water goblet). She often had no idea what to do with these words, they were the conversation confetti of her sleeping self, blowing around her mind the by  gibbering  activity of dreaming, too easily forgotten upon waking. She was left then, with only these small bright pieces landing with perfect imprecision on those first fragile thoughts of the morning: bassoon, cancan and Fera Verto.

Her cellphone had pinged at her not so many moments before, and so sloppily she reached for her cell tucked into the corner of her bookshelf, the thing between which it and her bed was situated. She slid the cell open, and snorted with chagrin because only Bailey would be up so early, and be so damn chipper and yes, greeting her in German at eight-ten in the morning. Bliss, who was still thinking about transfiguration spells, decided that she was not entirely awake enough to remember how  say ‘I’m fine,’ in German, if she had ever known in the first place. French was really more her style, or made up languages like Frank Herbert’s Fremen dialect and J. K.’s muddle mixed of Latin and Hawaiian.

She tucked the phone under the edge of her pillow, realizing that if someone else texted or called, her glaringly bright ringtone would be almost directly under her ear and that, more than the German, would be traumatizing at such an early hour. Still, she felt too warm and lazy with sleep yet and as if in defiance of phone and world beyond, pressed her skull against the shape of her cell under the pillow.

It was still a bit strange to her, waking up and feeling good about it. How long had it been since she’d experience that almost intangible tingle of joy the moment she opened her eyes in the morning? How long had she been unhappy, to have so thoroughly forgotten what this felt like, her mind peeling itself from a cocoon of sleep with twitching eagerness for the day, because day the filled with good things, or even bad things that could still be gilded in the glimmer of her own happiness? And yes, she realized – was acutely and stingingly aware – of the danger when one singular person could hold such influence on mind and mood. For as long as she’d been unhappy (or perhaps more realistically, disengaged and unsatisfied, for even in such a state happiness could be had, if in miserly amounts) she’d also been exactly careful to make sure that the people she allowed herself to love were of such caliber that they could only influence her so much. She didn’t allow her sense of well being – for what it was at the time – to hinge on someone else’s mercurial self. She called it independence, and told herself that she wasn’t really aloof as much as she was at a distance, a personal bubble of participation almost double the size of anyone else.

But she was that way because she knew her own fragility. And for too long there had been no one in her life to remind her of anything else. Of course there was family, but family was always that spongy mass of normality that soaked up Bliss’s quirks, insecurities and foibles without any real protestations about the validity of such. Had she finally worn them down so that they no longer had the energy or inclination to correct her misperceptions? Or was it her own quick clean strike of anger they worried about, if they pushed too hard and then had to suffer for it, catching a glimpse of the raw-Bliss, the one who was unhappy and couldn’t own to it? Surely they had to ask themselves then, if this deeper uglier Bliss was somehow their fault and oh, Bliss hated to see that flicker of guilt on the faces of the people she loved. So she stopped, and they stopped and she woke up in the morning exhausted at the prospect of another day, and worried about not being strong enough to carry on through it.

Yes, it was odd to wake up happy. Wonderfully odd, tastily odd, blessedly odd. And yes, it was for just one person, this happiness. He had come into her life, and he kissed her brow and told her that she was strong. He reminded her of the goodness that could be had when she invested herself unerringly to another, and simply trusted, though trust was never simple. But he didn’t allow it to be complicated, because he trusted first, and loved first. Because he laughed, so did she, and because he was honest, so was she. They didn’t so much as lead each other, but rather walked together and Bliss discovered that her personal bubble needed popping and he was the chap to do it.

Somewhere beyond her bedroom window a dog barked, and Bliss could tell the morning was overcast, the light having that metallic sheen of sun filtered through a thin unmoving bank of clouds. She turned her head on her pillow, the shape of her cell under her cheek as she stared past the edge of the curtain to a shuttered world beyond. Scratching her nose (she was determined to keep her nails long now, who knew they could be so erotic when applied to the skin of another?) Bliss realized she’d as much gone to bed happy as she’d woken up happy. There was a wonderful kind of risk in that, letting him make her so goddamn giddy. What would happen if he suddenly changed his mind, if he walked away? Could she survive it, survive him?

And she decided that yes, she could and would, but more importantly – most importantly – she trusted him. He wouldn’t leave her bleeding, as others had. Together they had had yesterday, and they had today and Bliss trusted that they’d have tomorrow as well.

Because she loved him.

Because he loved her.

Later she would text Bailey (in English) and Bliss would playfully needle her for being such a morning person. Then she’d text her boyfriend, in between spooning in unholy amounts of creamer and sugar into her coffee, and texting wouldn’t be enough, so he’d call and they’d laugh together as Bliss tried to pull on a pair of tights while still talking on the phone. And she’d tell him, while trying not to fall over as she wiggled her way into day clothes, that she’d woken up with the oddest assortment of words in her head…

I'm Not a Bitch

Just today I came across another one those "I'm a bitch and proud of it" fades that seems to grip woman today like some kind of angry self righteous fever meant to be a statement how happy we are to be female. Every time I see one those slogans, it seems to be what they're really saying is  "I'm a bitch and it's hard being a woman and I can be angry and ugly but that's okay because that extra x-chromosome entitles me to act without respect, reproducibility or perspective." I have to shake my head, proud feminist Renaissance woman that I am. Those damn slogans don't do us any good girls, they only set us back a 175 years.

I find it interesting that in modern society woman find it necessary to brand themselves with titles that most often carry a negative connotation so as to make themselves stand out. Why do we need to brand our "importance" as a sex with terminology most often reserved for criticism and negativity. Why is it that only "bad girls" make history? I find that complete bollocks. Yes, at times it is of paramount importance that we go against the grain of society and popular thought, but it's not because we're misbehaved or some how deviant: it is because what is best for all is most often most difficult to achieve.

Look at Margaret Sanger, a pioneer for woman's sexual rights on birth control. She wasn't a bad woman, a bitch, but a visionary who saw the plight of the women around her, and said "No, this is wrong." She spent her whole life working so that woman could take their sex lives and reproductive options into their own hands. She was ostracized for it, even had to leave America to preserve her freedom and her work.

What about Elizabeth I... She was the under-valued bastard daughter of Henry VIII. By the time she came to the English throne, her country was bankrupt, on the verge of invasion and in the middle of a religious civil war. Her advisers and ministers were at wits end, and only desperation for a legitimate heir of Tudor blood could persuade them to put Elizabeth in power. Yet by the end of her reign, her country was of the richest in the realm, had expansive trade routs, religious freedoms the likes of which had not been seen before and the greatest thinkers, artists, musicians and writers flocked to England to be a part of Elizabeth's Golden Age. She was not a bitch, but she did have to stand firm, to hold tight to her beliefs, to be unswayed by the rampant vitriol and debasement spread by her opponents and trust that as a woman, she was enough.

Those great woman of history, the ones most often quoted, the ones to whom you caste your thoughts when you think of  great females didn't make their marks because they were some how snubbing their nose at the establishment. What they did, the many risks they took were prompted not out of some simplistic juvenile rebellion, a need to 'act out' or just be a bitch... Rather they acted out of compassion, or outrage at the wrongs around them.

Think of Florance Nightingale, or Mother Teresa, or even Lady Godiva. These woman weren't bitches. They were strong, and they had great compassion which, in my mind, is the most difficult road to travel for a human heart. To look at another's hurt, and let it become your own, and then to have the further strength to get up, to be heard and to fight on the behalf of those who can't fight for themselves. What great things these women accomplished, and accomplished through conviction, through sympathy and hope.

And as women, because of all the things our sex has had to deal with, fight against and over come, don't we have a responsibility act properly? I'm not talking about lacing ourselves up in a corset of submission, repression and silence, but rather approaching each day, each thought and word spoken with intelligence, and with kindness! The world around us doesn't need even one more reason to look down on our sex.

I want to be a woman of integrity, of depth, class, humor, perspective. I want to able to think and work and achieve with the greatest minds in history. And I don't have to be angry, petulant, sarcastic or over-sexed in order to do so.

History is liberally impacted by extraordinary women; females who had to stand against a tide of ridicule, prejudice and difficulty in order to bring that certain compassion, perspective, equality and sympathy to their world that is particular and precious just of their sex. I have great respect for such women, and I feel that I follow in their footsteps.

I am not a bitch or a bad girl. I'm a lady and that's title enough for me.

The Power of a Bathroom

I have my own bathroom. I just realized this two days ago. For years and years my sister and I, or my mother and my sister and I, or my dad and my mother and my sister and I have been sharing bathrooms. Nomadic as we are, this never seemed uncommon to me, until I walked into the bathroom next to my bedroom (and what had been my sister's room across from mine, until she moved out a couple of months ago) and realized that I no longer had to pick up clothes off the floor. I no longer had to wipe down the sink because someone else didn't, or roll down the toothpaste because someone else forgot to. And my god! I could actually do my make-up in a decent mirror, and yes! The drawers were finally mine. I could light incense in there, and no one would complain, or I could have two matching towels hung up just for the simple stupid reason that they looked nice!

I was almost gleeful. I put all my various bottles of lotion on the counter, and added another basket to the wall, and put my one living plant (Henry, of course, in honor of that phallic bastard, Henry VIII who I actually am strangely fascinated by) in the corner next to the tub. I brought my silver jewelry box and set it just so, and all my make-up brushes went next too -- but not in front of -- the toothbrush cup. I smiled, knowing that if anything got moved it would be because I moved it, and that if I made a mess, well... That's okay too, it was mine to clean up and no one elses to comment on.

Am I sounding crazy here? It's just a bathroom, I know, but there have been years of shared space to fuel this glorious relief of having new personal space. I'm so ready for my own life, and finally I'm getting to a place where I don't feel guilty about it. (Don't ask, that's a whole other conversation. For a therapist). This bathroom feels like a badge of acknowledgment somehow.

Walking into that room (and let's face it, it is just a bathroom and a relatively ordinary one at that) gave me just one more inch more that I could claim as my own. Perhaps it's a bit self indulgent to wax poetic but the feeling of it... Yes, it was blissful. I'll say it. Having my own bathroom is blissful.

The Ramifications of Fudge

Today my friend – and I suppose it is only appropriate at this point to call her my best friend – sent me a picture of homemade pecan fudge. My best friend is startlingly domestic. She is the sort of lovely feminine creature who excels at obscure cookie recipes and can wears the most cunningly tiny heeled shoes and actually did ballroom dancing for years. She has the dizzying of effect of shaming me as a woman (she delights in spending more time on her hair in a single day than I do in an entire month) and she affirms my belief in all things pretty and homey and kind.

She is also one of the only two people who ever text me.

The other person who texts is my sister. This is a no brainer. I love my sister with the sort of fierce universe-shattering, time-travel, source of all life kind love I never even thought myself capable of. I've loved only one other person like that in my whole life. He is currently Seattle, not texting me, but hopefully feeling pangs for not texting. I want to believe he is there building bookshelves and making love to beautiful men and learning to cook for himself. But because I know him, it’s safe to assume he’s getting his brother to build his bookshelves for him, and is only fantasizing about making love and is most likely on first-name basis with the Chinese take-out chap who delivers his dinner.

I wouldn’t even be thinking about him except that I had one of those super vivid druggy dreams last night, in which I told the people around me that I was ready to let go of him. This dream culminates approximately five I’ve had about him since he left, and we stopped talking and my heart hurt more than enough to remind me about all its previous bruises. In the dream I was standing in a field, or rather an endless flat grassy plain. Above us the sky was clustered with cloudy constellations of strange stars, and myself, and two strangers were staring up and up, while the universe above wheeled around faster and faster. I worried I might be flung out into space, I grabbed hold of the tall thin man next to me (he looked an awful lot like the hotty lit teacher at my college) and he looked down at me and smiled.

“Ready?” he asked, and not waiting for my reply, he sunk what looked like a giant version of those wine-quark remover gadgets into the ground. He pressed down the wings of the tool, plunging the twisted screw into soil, and immediately clear water spewed forth, a gushing that caught all the starlight. It blinded me; I couldn’t see as the tall man yanked out the tool and pushed me into what was now a leg-wide hole.

“Let go,” he said, and I, still clinging to him, the water soaking through my shoes, smelling like prairie dirt and cold stars, replied “I’m ready.”

And I was. I let go, was sucked down into the hole, my mouth filling up with salt water. I woke up a short time later, the dream inexorably changing, all the images going muddy like paint colored mixed together. But I lay in the dark, one arm hanging over the side of my bed, overwhelmed with the memory of salt, and a feeling pressed all along my insides.

Relief.

And it was a relief to get a text about homemade pecan fudge and to realize that I do actually really care about homemade pecan fudge, and to know that she knows that I care about homemade pecan fudge and that somehow, strangely, wonderfully, this means I have a best friend in true.

I think about the smallness of my life. This bedroom, the sound of my finches in their cage, the fact that my mom actually did dishes today instead of leaving them for me, and the unexpected affirmation that good fudge has on me. Since my friend went to Seattle, all those good precious mundane things went slippery and angry for me. I hated the confines of my house, and the taste of fast food burgers (a thing for which I have an absolutely unhealthy and fanatical love of) and vindictive pleasure of leaving my phone off for days at a time. I let him take too much of me with him, making the world around me matter less.

I don’t know when I came back to myself. Was it in the dreaming, in the texting, in the re-friending? Does it matter?

I can tell you what does matter. Pecan fudge. Homemade pecan fudge.