On Being a Twenty-Something, Defensively

I’ve had a blog since I was fifteen. I wrote posts on MySpace, I posted to (and obsessed over) my LiveJournal account, and finally, when I went away to college, I got a Blogspot to document adventures for my family. Three (give or take a few) iterations later, you have the present form of the same thing: a place on the internet to write about my life.

There is something so entirely humbling about reading back to a post that I wrote when I was little.

Stuff like:

“I stood there, in the company of many, but I knew so few.”

and

“I smiled, trying not to make eye contact. I’m sure my dejected look detracted from my approachability.”

or

“The drive home, in the cool night air, windows down, music up, was immense. No other cars on the road, just me and the night, speeding slowly home. I set the cruise control, just for fun, so that I could just be in the night. I was sixteen again, fresh with ideas, taking the turn to the song, letting the music take me elsewhere.
The lights in Denver have begun their countdown, a simple way of informing pedestrians of their impending restriction, and at night, the countdown simply hits zero and reverts back to the little light man walking. I found myself timing it so that as I drove, I’d be crossing the intersection as the change occurred, the ultimate end leading back to the same beginning.
There is nothing better than the promise of summer, no matter what life is holding for you at the moment, standing outside in the night and smelling the air will change your life. Floral scents intermingle with the city’s hot fresh air and the animals of the night seem to be more alive.
We saw a skunk mosey past, on his way somewhere fast. As I drove away into the night, rolling down the windows, I passed the skunk again, still running, still on the street, getting somewhere.
We’re all getting somewhere, even if we have no idea where we are.”

These posts become a place for me to mark my growth. They remind me that I’ve always been some things, and they reinforce that I’ve always been others. Sometimes I am struck by how insightful Past-Me is, and others, I cringe at her insecurity and wish her all the self-assurance in the world.

I’ve been reading posts about my generation. We’re the Millenials, the ones who are supported by their parents, who have no work ethic, who are vapid and shallow and marked by their sense of entitlement. All of those authors are so wrong.

Yes, we’re wallowing, wandering, lost, and afraid. (And yes, some of us are total dicks. But your generation had some not-so-pleasant people in it too, admit it.) What we were raised to see as our future is crumbling in front of us, as though arriving at the desert mirage to find more and more of same, too-hot sand. We’re thirsty. As I’ve said before, we’re the Next Lost Generation. We have no idea what to expect, because the expectations change daily.

Struggling to find the balance between youth and maturity is a difficult one, particularly when any move toward “grown-up” is criticized, and movements to remain “youthful” are equally stigmatized by both my peers and my age-superiors. What I find interesting is that many of these authors criticizing the Millenials are Millenials themselves.

I work three jobs and don’t get financial support (except health insurance premium – Mom, you’re the best), and I make it work. I have work ethic, drive, desire, and passion to create a sustainable and secure future for myself. I happen to enjoy a few gin & tonics and some dancing. So be it. Yeah, I get frustrated at my peers. I find people with no drive infuriating and weak. I am prone to the occasional meltdown of desperate wallowing.

But I’m also not wallowing for the sake of wallowing. This life is a journey. Right now, the age-superiors are controlling a large stake of this world that we live in. It’s hard to get past the entry-level job, it’s hard to ascertain whether or not our place is as adult-equal or child-mentee. It’s difficult. It’s like being seventeen again, being all lost and insecure and afraid.

The reason that there are so many twenty-somethings actively writing about their lives is because they’re finding an outlet.The internet has opened lines of communication that hardly existed twenty years ago, and has fostered equal parts community and isolation by “social networks.” Growing up with access to technology will change – has already changed – a lot of the ways that people example typical milestones. There’s a lot more comparison, more evaluation, but also less of each.

Pressure on young adults to be “perfect” is a very real thing. They want to succeed, and want to be able to do that, but are often so coddled and cared for that they lack the tools with which to do so. Or, alternately, they want to succeed but instead of being coddled and cared for, they’re tough enough to make it on their own but are constantly fighting external circumstances. It’s life, just like you lived it, just like your kids will live it. It’s just always a bit different.

Yeah, some of those blogs are insipid as all hell. Some are lame. Others are personal. Each blog inhabits its own space. It is exactly what it is. And I’ll tell you something that I always tell people: If you don’t like it, don’t read it.  (For those of you who think the Millenials are strange, you should delve into the world of middle-aged bloggers, some who are fascinating, wonderful creatures and others who are like reading something reminiscent of listening to nails along a mile-long chalkboard. The grass is always greener, dear Baby Boomers.)

My blog marks my growth from adolescent to young adult and beyond. I’m humbled by, grateful for, astonished by, embarrassed about, aware of, and immensely proud of everything, even the parts I hate. This blog, while both public-facing and well-trafficked, is an account of growth and the stages that mark a life. My life. It is meant to be self-pitying and triumphant in equal measures.

When I look back on my posts, I am able to mark the moments at which I grew and changed. I am able to see how my opinions and tastes have changed and grown. And I am  content to see how the journey has progressed thus far, and excited about the glorious future that awaits.

So, remember: If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Problem solved.

On Fifty Shades of Grey, consensually

I fully intended to write up a whole rant about what prudes we are, regarding the release and subsequent popularity of the Fifty Shades of Grey novels. I wandered into Barnes & Noble the other day to buy the first of the trilogy and an economics book, but ended up with 2 economics books, 3 Fifty Shades of Grey books, Bloom, and two romance novels. Embarrassing. But honestly, whatever. Books are good. You’d rather me spend money on that than on meth, right? (That’s a horrible explanation, but I’m still trying to internally rationalize buying so many books. First I was supporting books in print, then I was helping the economy. I’ve devolved to “at least it’s not meth” and I don’t see the argument gaining any traction any time soon.)

Here’s my synopsis in a few sentences: Yes, I love it, but only because I have a penchant for romance novels and BDSM, so the two together please me in the way only badly written books read in the bathtub can. Yes, it reminds me of Twilight. I think her choice to set it in the Pacific NW was a terrible one.

Hahaha, everyone talks about how revolutionary this book is, but honestly, it’s a book that relies on thin stereotypes. The protagonist is a strong-willed and intelligent woman who is determined to get her boyfriend to turn vanilla (which means to give up his BDSM lifestyle and embrace all things missionary). Did I mention that he’s a billionaire who plays the piano and speaks French and oh, by the way, was terribly abused as a child and so he’s broken and we should pity him even though he’s a titch over-protective to the point of obsession?

He loves her, and she loves him. Coincidentally, she’s a pure virgin and he’s the wounded sadist.  She wants him to give up his perfectly consensual lifestyle (which she finds abhorrent)  to love her, and he does. She wants him to learn how to trust, and love, and let people touch him finally so he can move past his abuse. And magically, she manages to break through his barriers. It’s like five weeks before they’re engaged.

And turn vanilla they do. I’m pretty sure they get married and have a baby at the end of the trilogy. (And by pretty sure, I mean I know exactly what happens, because I read the last page of the last book.) Not that marriage and babies is “vanilla”, but the plot line follows a pretty standard hegemonic trajectory that I see in 99.999% of romance novels, so we’re back on a well-trod track. (Not a bad one. Before I die, I’d love to write a romance novel. I tried in early 2010 and it was poorly cobbled together and weak. Ugh, I shudder to think about it.)

Katie reminded me that I’m being hyper-critical and that so many of the people reading these books have no idea what BDSM entails. And since the characters are so quick to embrace a vanilla-BDSM blend, I guess she’s right. This is a good start for people to start understanding what goes on in your neighbors’ bedrooms at night. I also think that since it’s consensual, and contractual, it’s a good representation of the power dynamics that are involved. And the author throws out words like “flogger” and “caning” to add to the perceived authenticity. I can respect a gentle introduction to the terminology and the concepts wrapped in a fictional piece.

However, it was Dan Savage, my favorite sex columnist who put it best, so I’ve copied a portion of his column today and also a smaller portion of another answer in the same column. And I’m actually laughing out loud about the top bit:


I’m stumped, Dan. In the novel Fifty Shades of Grey, which has been the subject of much discussion due to its controversial subject matter (a young woman gets involved in a BDSM relationship), the term “canning” is used numerous times. Despite my best efforts, I cannot find a definition for this practice. Who else can I turn to but you?

-Confused And Naive, New Era Definition

It’s not canning (“a method of preserving food in which the food contents are processed and sealed in an airtight container”), it’s caning (“a form of corporal punishment consisting of a number of hits with a single cane usually made of rattan”).

I don’t know if the author of Fifty Shades of Grey dropped that extra “n” in there, CANNED, or if you did. But here’s hoping that millions of women all over the world aren’t fantasizing about having themselves canned by kinky billionaires. A person can survive—a person can even enjoy—a good thrashing. But being sealed in an airtight container? Not so much.

Full disclosure: I may be the only sex writer on earth who has yet to read Fifty Shades of Grey. While I plan to avoid readingGrey, just as I’ve avoided watching “2 Girls, 1 Cup” (and for similar reasons, i.e., I’m easily nauseated), I think it’s wonderful that this book is inspiring a whole new generation of American women to get their kink on.

Here’s the second bit, and I think it’s worth paying attention to, for a number of social reasons:

Backing way the hell up for a moment: I’ve been writing about sex and relationships, men and women, kinky sex and vanilla sex for 20 years. It is my informed opinion that men typically become aware of their kinks—they typically become hyperaware of them—when they’re teenagers. Many women, on the other hand, don’t seem to become aware of their kinks until they’re in their 30s or 40s. Maybe it has something to do with the sexual peak, which men are believed to hit in their teens and women in their 30s (and which many people believe to be bullshit), or maybe it simply takes women longer to overcome the misogynist slut-shaming that they’re subjected to as girls and to openly embrace their sexualities and sexual interests.

source: The Seattle Stranger (but other places, too)


On Remembering

I found it! I found the poem I was looking for!
It’s unedited, exactly as it was when I wrote it.
I just absolutely love love love this poem. It’s so apathetic. It’s everything that seventeen-year old me was. The ending gets me every time. Pause as you read it. Pause and really let the end sink into your soul. (Maybe it won’t work for you; I don’t know. But just try it.)

I need to remind readers that this poem has absolutely nothing to do with my current romantic partner situation.

Oh man, now I want to find the “Still Life” poem. I just spent like ten minutes digging through my old journal. It’s funny how much I’ve grown, and funnier still how much remains the same. I became friends with a girl who’d gone to Mullen, although she was much older than me, and she became my biggest supporter during those awkward teenage years. She believed in my writing and I’m so grateful for that, because without her positive input, I may not have had the courage to keep doing it. We keep in touch on facebook now, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been able to really tell her how much it meant to me that she read everything I wrote. She’s off getting her doctorate and living a wild and beautiful life in Australia, but it’s funny how much we are still able to share even if it’s just through “likes” and comments.

“Remember”
originally posted January 11, 2006


I remember you.
I remember the first time
you said “I love you.” 
I had forgotten
until today.
Sitting in the park last night, 
on a shadowed log
amidst the winter grass
while she remembered 
memories she should’ve never had
I flashed back. 
I took a picture of the spot
where I was standing
when it hit me
late that summer night
and I first felt the sensations 
roll over me.
but enough
I’d like to leave it there.
Later, not long forgotten
we were side by side
tangled in a sweet release
and you kissed my forehead
in that way 
that you knew drove me crazy 
and you whispered it.
I tensed
as silence filled the room
what was I to say
to someone I didn’t love?
I sighed 
and kissed your hand
and rolled over
and let you hold me
until it was over
and I didn’t have to say 
anything anymore.

South African Articles Are Now Available Online

You’ve already read them, of course, but I’m so excited to see that the Cape Chameleon is up and running online. Straight from the internets, here are my old articles in all their glory:

Our Contributors

Katherine Barry, USA
Issue Articles
5 Houses of Sand
7 White Wine
Katherine Barry, from Denver, Colorado, USA, is a recent graduate of Loyola University Chicago with a degree in Communication Studies. She enjoys excellent adventures, particularly road trips, and hopes that she will one day find a job that will her allow her the luxury of world travel.
Words : Katherine Barry
A pile of charred wood is all that’s left of the shacks. The sand where they sat is littered with burned belongings: a blackened Bible, an office chair, clothes no longer usable. The metal sheets that had once been walls have been salvaged, taken for use in new shacks, the obviously burnt edges blending in amongst the rust.
The first fire broke out three weeks before in the same shack that would be the ignition point of the second fire, which would tear through the informal settlement of Village Heights in Cape Town, depriving 15 families of their homes.
Fires in informal settlements – like Village Heights – represent one of the biggest dangers of living in such a community. Even with attempts to build with space on all sides, fires such as the one that destroyed those 15 shacks can spread quickly since the materials used to construct the homes are highly flammable and unregulated.
‘It was better under apartheid,’ says Bernadine, the community leader who has created and maintained the Village Heights library, and who is the recipient of the first Projects Abroad sandbag house in South Africa. ‘At least then we all had our own homes and jobs. Now we have nothing.’

Government response

According to residents, after the first fire the government offered four wooden posts, five pieces of metal and some grounding plastic as a replacement. However, the metal went to the construction of a roof and the residents were left to use plastic to create walls. During the second fire, a woman was badly burned when the plastic melted onto her skin.
Proper housing is something that many people living in South Africa lack, for a multitude of reasons, including long waiting times after application for government housing. ‘I’ve been on a waiting list for twenty one years,’ says one woman who lost her home in the fire. ‘My daughter is 20 now.’ She went on to detail her experience, saying that she makes regular visits to go check on the status of her application, only to be told that she is indeed still on the list, but that no further information can be released about the status of the application.
While debates rage about governmental involvement and personal contribution for houses, the issue remains that people lack proper living quarters. Residents of the informal settlements around Cape Town and throughout South Africa are forced to create homes using materials that they can find, salvage, or buy, resulting in homes that often lack even basic features such as a floor. Security measures are an afterthought as well, allowing for criminal activity to flourish in the crowded neighbourhoods. Where to go from here?
Sand is nearly ubiquitous in Cape Town and the surrounding areas. It also might present a feasible solution to the problem of the shack homes in the ever-expanding informal settlements. Filling bags with sand and then stacking them within a frame can create a solid structure that is built both efficiently and quickly.
Beginning with materials, construction with sandbags can be a cheap alternative to traditional building methods. Since all that is needed to build a sandbag structure are bags, sand, cement and wooden and metal framing, the cost drops significantly due to the lack of construction equipment needed. No cranes, no stacks of bricks and no heavy vehicles entering or leaving the construction site.
20% of the materials need to be allocated for the construction of the frame of the sandbag building, but there is a certain amount of flexibility as to what those might be – including the use of wood or tin. Bricks can be used as well, but in order to maintain the eco-friendly atmosphere, they should only be implemented if they are within reach to avoid the entrance of trucks and other machinery in to the site.

Benefits of sand building

This cost effective creation is incredibly ecofriendly. Since most of the building can be done with materials found on-site, the need for waste is nearly eliminated. This waste elimination plays a large factor in the ecofriendly nature of the sandbag buildings.
Builders who choose to use sandbag building as an alternative to conventional construction methods also stand to gain carbon credits for their choices. Carbon credit programmes offer financial incentives for companies to build in keeping with the ‘green’ trends and for waste elimination and recycling of materials.
This waste elimination and recycling process, presents an opportunity for those who are economically disadvantaged. By being able to build effectively and also save money, they can increase community bonds and safety.

Structural soundness

Besides being fireproof, the sand structures also present an element of soundproofing not found in the corrugated iron structures, which currently make up most of the homes in the townships and informal settlements in the Cape Town area.
They are also not easy to deconstruct or demolish, in essence creating a lasting home that won’t be victim to natural disasters such as flooding or tornadoes. The solidity of the sand as it is packed and stacked neatly to create walls allows for an element of indoor climate control that supersedes that provided by the corrugated structures as well. The sand essentially insulates the home, keeping it warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer.

Spreading the word

The surmountable caveat to sand building is that it is not well known as a possible method for creating homes. The newly homeless fire victims had never heard of sandbag building when asked about it, yet were curious as to how it might work. They eagerly agreed that the community would want to be involved in such a building plan, given the right materials.
Based on the readily available materials and the community mentality that many of the neighbourhoods have, it seems that if sandbag structures could catch on, they might make a wonderful improvement for communities who are underfunded and under protected.
Projects Abroad began constructing their first sandbag house at the site of the Village Heights Library in August of 2010. While normally the construction of such a building (one room) would take less than a month, due to staggered volunteer arrivals, the project has continued for more than three months. Nevertheless, the house is beginning to take shape.
Bernadine hopes to show off the building project as a model of sustainable building. As of the beginning of December, the structure was complete and the roof had been added and finalisation of the exterior decoration was beginning. The hope is that the building will remain a long-standing testament to the possibility of creation from local materials and community involvement.
The project supervisor – Deen Singh – remains optimistic that the sandbag building will be used for the betterment of the community. He explained that everything must be done to help the children. The building has been designated for use in a crèche, or a childcare centre, one that will hopefully create a safe haven for children from all over Village Heights. Currently there are five volunteers working on the building. Rick, a German volunteer, feels that the building he is helping to construct will last, showing immediate change in the place that he came to volunteer. ‘It’s nice to leave something behind,’ he said.
Perhaps this sandbag building can be a model of change for a community that is desperate for change, but lacking the resources with which to create it.
Words :Katherine Barry
The clink of glasses and the soft murmur of conversation fill the air with the sounds of a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Searching for looming mountains, lush vineyards, and quiet roads, families and groups of friends flock to the wine lands in the Western Cape for vacations, day trips and evening meals to sample wine and pass time under the South African sun.
Behind the idyllic fields that birthed the South African wine industry, lie the lingering oppression of apartheid and the pain of extreme poverty. South Africa, which wasn’t known for being a world exporter of wine until post 1994, when apartheid induced international boycott ended, had eighth largest wine producer as of 2005, according to a report published by the South African Wine Industry Council in 2007.

Industry history

South Africa entered the wine industry long before 1994, however Jan van Riebeeck planted the first vines in South Africa in 1655 and the first wines produced from those grapes appeared four years later. After initially planting vines in what is now Wynberg, the wine industry began to flourish in Constantia.
It was soon after the French Huguenots settled in the Cape area during the late seventeenth century; the wine trade began to flourish. Exports from Constantia became well known in Europe, creating the market for South African wine. However, Phylloxera, a disease that kills grape vines, was discovered in 1886 and caused much of the vineyards to suffer heavy losses.
The twentieth century was one of the most important centuries for South African wine. In 1925, Stellenbosch University Professor Perold was able to blend Pinot Noir with Hermitage grapes to create the Pinotage. The Pinotage wasn’t marketed until the late 1950s, but has since become South Africa’s most famous and successful cross-pollination.

Economic impact

As of 2008, the wine industry grossed 2.2% of the country’s GDP, which was about R26.2 billion. The latest numbers, coming from the wine industry, show an increase in production, up R4 billion from five years earlier. The industry also provides 275,600 job opportunities as well, according to South Africa information (www.southafrica.info). Wine tourism draws a steady stream of people to the winelands in the Western Cape. Stellenbosch and Paarl are among the most popular destinations.

Economic problems

The problems plaguing the heavily white wine industry are most certainly correlated to other social problems in post-apartheid South Africa, and while they do not necessarily have their origins within the industry itself, it is apparent that the industry is feeling problematic reverberations throughout its entire structure.
The antiquated ‘dop’ (meaning ‘drop of alcohol’ in Afrikaans) system, under which black and coloured workers were paid in alcohol, usually wine, rather than cash or other goods, led to high rates of alcoholism among the workers, whose consumption of the wine left them tethered to the farm that they worked on in order to maintain a continuous flow of alcohol from the farm owners, who were (and still are) overwhelmingly white. Even though the ‘dop’ system has been abolished, and reforms are in place to ensure that the workers are compensated legitimately, alcoholism remains one of the main social problems emanating from the Western Cape wine industry.

Alcohol-related problems

Shebeens, or other illegal liquor establishments, are often hotbeds of alcohol-related activity. The farm workers, who often lack other means of entertainment and suffer from geographically induced social isolation and lack the money as well as other resources needed to overcome these obstacles, have easy access to the Shebeens.
Since these Shebeens often act as community centres, the presence of children is common. Some mothers even put wine into their babies’ bottles in order to keep them quiet, according to Professor Dennis Viljoen as quoted in an article written for VOAnews.com (Voice of America) by Darren Taylor.
Another of the far-reaching social problems stemming from the South African vineyards is Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (FAS). FAS and other alcoholrelated developmental problems occur when the mother ingests large quantities of alcohol during pregnancy and is the most preventable cause of mental retardation. Many mothers continue to drink throughout their pregnancies, due to a lack of education about the ill-effects of drinking during pregnancy as well as disregard for that information.
Estimates of FAS in South Africa, average around 45 cases per 1000 (suggests Jake McKinstry in the American Journal of Public Health, 2005). Compared to rates of one case per 750 infants born in the United States, (according towww.kidshealth.org) the rate of the South African FAS is staggering. The country has one of the highest FAS rates in the world. Children who suffer from FAS often suffer from symptoms such as: a low birth weight, developmental delay, learning disabilities, behavioural problems and poor social skills.
All of these symptoms could be easily avoided if mothers would abstain from alcohol while pregnant, making FAS the most preventable cause of developmental problems. In South Africa, awareness of FAS is limited, but attempts to spread information have begun. International Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) Day in on 9 September. Despite the fact that attempts are being made to quell the rise of FAS in South Africa, it cannot be achieved without support from the systems that have contributed to the spread of the problem.

Economic diversity

Alcoholism is not the only problem plaguing the South African wine industry. The lack of diversity may seem inconsequential, but in order to maintain growth rates that mirror those of the population of the country, it is imperative that more black wine farms be created. A black economic empowerment (BEE) charter drafted in 2007 attempted to address the economic disparity and to create a more diverse industry has failed to move through governmental channels. However, there has been promising, albeit slow, growth within the industry. According to the Wine Industry Development Association (WIDA) 38% of ‘wine operations’ have programmes in place for black empowerment. Another positive indicator of progress is Thandi, now an independent company that was started under Paul Cluver Vineyards. Thandi began to show profit and has also been able to pay dividends to its shareholders. However, it appears that Thandi might be an outlier rather than part of a growing trend. BEE research shows that only 2.26% of vineyards are operated under black ownership. Growth and change may be coming to the South African wine industry, but it’s coming slowly.

Putting it all together

The South African wine industry mirrors the rest of the country quite clearly in racial breakdowns and social problems, but it also mirrors the positive impact that time seems to be having on those same issues. Racial integration has been slow coming to South Africa, particularly the Western Cape, but it seems as though the tides are slowly changing as the workforce becomes a more integrated, educated place. The determination of industries to diversify has only added to the sense of hope being fostered among communities of all race, socio-economic, age and demographics.

On Death, Eventually

I fear greatly the answers to the questions surrounding death. It pains me to think too much about any of it. Rather than the belief in something after, I believe solely in attempting to make the best of these precious earth-bound moments. And yet, usually catching me entirely unaware, the thoughts creep back into my brain. What lies after? How can we succinctly tie our own spiritualities with the scientific, with the known, with the cold reality of it all?

I remember the immensity that was the moment – that singular moment – when we put down our beloved golden retriever. His head coming to rest for the last time on my shoe. My jerky response as I stood, smashing into the paper towel dispenser. The nurse (nurse? vet tech? lady in scrubs?) attempting to comfort me and me pushing her away because the tears were coming too fast and I couldn’t wait to break away and be alone, where no one would see me crying. I realize that this is in no way comparable to the deaths of those humans we come to love so much, but then again, I think perhaps that even those mammalian deaths hold the keys to true humanity. The singularity that ties us all together: love.

No matter how it happens, death holds some sort of quiet whisper, a moment in which time stops rushing and instead, lingers for the exhale. It’s not something that will ever leave you. (I do not speak as one wizened by so many experiences, thankfully, although the few that I have had with death have been personally profound.)

I was reading in the bathtub (now that I’m taking baths again, my reading material has multiplied immensely) and I found myself falling in love with the protagonist of the book I’d just started – it’s been languishing in one of my book suitcases (yes, I have those) for ages and I’ve just now gotten around to picking it up. She embodies, for the moment, everything I find wonderful: strength, intelligence, determination, the juxtaposition of masculine and feminine, beauty, courage. And yet, I found myself terrified that she’d die before the end of the book. In that moment, I was certain of her death. I flipped to the last page (a terrible habit, but one I take great comfort in – I even do it with romance novels, and you know from the third page how those are going to end) and sure enough, she dies. It’s a beautiful death, really, her soul personified by birds. But now I’m happier to read about her life. I can take comfort in the fact that I already know how she dies, yet I’ve not at all ruined the book for myself.

This is the point of all of this, I guess: even though you can not know the exactness of your own death, you know that at a certain point, it must come. I look at those yellow feline eyes that I love so much and realize that I can’t keep them forever. I push away the melancholy thoughts, realizing that loving him now is so much better than focusing on the pain I’ll feel when he’s gone. I circle back, from time to time, working myself up thinking about the emptiness that the deaths of those I love will leave. I think it stems from the knowledge that one day, I will be without my mother. In my attempts to soothe myself, I have begun to steel myself against the void I know will exist. Void is inadequate. It will be like a roaring vacuum. It will pull at the edges of my soul.

But it is natural. (I remember this book they got us to teach us about death. I’ll never forget how incredibly mystified I was when I read it. I hated the book and yet something drew me to it. It calmly taught children that everything must die, and yet it horrified me. I hated connecting dead leaves to people. Something resonated somewhere deep inside of me. I often think of that book and wonder what it would be like to read it again now. I wonder if it’s in a box somewhere in a basement.)

Death and taxes, they say. But they’re not wrong. To know the eventuality of it before it happens is to hope that one will be able to fully embrace everything that is life knowing the finality of it all. The chance to struggle and create, to learn and understand, to think, to feel, to be, to love passionately and freely is a gift. Those moments are the footprints we leave behind. To love deeply and live fully are my only goals. If at my funeral, people don’t laugh and tell horrifyingly embarrassing yet endearing stories, I will be incredibly bummed.  Life is a wild adventure. It’s beautiful and bittersweet.

Either way, it is certain. It’s comforting, in a way, to know that everyone has to do it. Someone’s doing it right now. Someone did it yesterday and someone will do it tomorrow. We are all born and we will all die, but what we do in between belongs solely to us. That’s the best part.

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

"Over"

At first I didn’t even like you, I didn’t even know who you were.

I was intrigued but not impressed, curious but not intense.

Then came the wine, the warmth of it spreading deep into my toes, touching even my frost-chilled fingers.

I didn’t take the time to reasses, to think of sleep or even rest.

Full of selfish disregard for the coming dawn, I went with you and drank and danced.

Full of life, hot wet blood coursing through me quickening my heartbeat at your mention.

I threw away a lot to have that wine, to sit with you and drink it, a carefree drunk neglecting closing time.

When it was over, there was nothing left, like staring into the deep green glass of an empty bottle,

like turning it upside down hoping something, anything will drop out.

Lke digging in your back pocket for a couple dollars but finding only pennies instead, not enough for another.

Like flinging the bottle from a darkened rooftop, hearing the satisfying shatter on the asphalt below,

like a blissful evening that turned violent and angry before fading sharply into black.

Like being sober as the nights breaks into morning, when sun tips into bloodshot eyes.

Like piecing it all back together while you pretend you didn’t smoke the entire pack of cigarettes,

like stumbling into the kitchen and throwing open the refrigerator,

like staring into the white cold nothingness that whirrs in response to your suggestion.

It’s not like I wanted anything anyway, it’s still full of nothing but condiments and empty promises.

Like holding the sides of cold porcelain and retching, feeling turbulent and fuzzy, unlikely feelings intertwined.

It’s the waiting that’s the worst.

And slowly you were gone, finally a dull headache somewhere near my forehead, a good night’s sleep

pushed you away.

Even so, there’s no hesistation when the question of repetition comes up.

Meet me for a drink, he’ll say, a dark glance in a dark bar, or a smile in the middle of the afternoon, a firm

handshake on a Wednesday evening, dinner as an afterthought.

Of course.

Write. June 2010.

Because I’m too tired to try to recount my weekend, and because I’m too stressed out to want to relive it right now, fiction:

“I’m sorry,” she whispered; then she was gone.
            He watched her go, staring at her cotton-clad back as she disappeared down the cheaply carpeted stairs. As soon as her footsteps were fading into the dark hall, he shut the door, slowly, hoping that he’d have a chance to throw it open in an excited welcome.
            But he didn’t.
            The reluctant click of the deadbolt cemented the end of her sound, and he went to the window to watch her pass through the gate. He stood near the window tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t glance up to see him watching her.
            She did.
            “Shit!” he said, before remembering that it was summer, and all of his windows were open. “Shit,” he said again.
            She stared, her eyes widening in faint surprise. She’d not been expecting him to watch her exit, but then again, nothing about tonight had gone as she’d expected. Look away, she thought. Look away. But she found that she couldn’t.
            Just his head now was visible in the lit window; he’d tucked his body back behind the wall.
            “Shit,” she said, disgusted, echoing his word choice but not nearly his sentiment. Finally tearing her eyes from his, she walked quickly in the direction of the train. She had no intention of taking the train, not tonight. As soon as she was sure that she was out of his line of sight, which was quite farther than she needed to worry about, she broke into a sprint. She’d done quite a bit of preparation in anticipation of their date tonight, and worn clothes that were not conducive to running.
            By the time she hit a street she knew she’d be able to catch a cab on, she was breathless. Her chest heaving and her heart racing, she threw her hand out blindly.  And she waited.
            As she was throwing her arm into traffic, he was finally pulling away from the window. He’d been hoping she’d come back to claim the lipstick she’d dropped. He didn’t realize that she’d left a trail of the contents of her purse behind her on her mad dash away. He wasn’t aware of the fact that she wouldn’t care.
            She wasn’t yet aware of the fact that fate would throw them together again. 

Censorhsip

I am careful of what I write, hesitant fingers hanging over plastic keys, begging to be stamped down and repeated, again and again, forming words with their movements, the sounds making steady music from it. Each letter comforts the next, the up and down and up and down becomes a constant rhythm. Yet, I hesitate. Stopping, dangling a word over the keys, their begging is silent, though, and I resist.
The readers checks them, stopping daily, weekly, as it pops us in their favorites. The words mean nothing to them. They stop and read, as though it’s the daily newspaper. They do not realize they’ve been fooled. There is nothing here but empty words, spun out of boredom or the chance that maybe once I’ll say what I’m thinking, what’s poised on the edge of my brain.
I never stop wondering, thinking, realizing, dreaming, assuming, whatever. But when I sit down to play the symphony of these keys, my words float away from me in some angry tide of feeling and I am left with nothing.
I stare. White screen. Blank. The keys sit. Untouched. I think. No, that won’t work. She won’t like it. or. No, that won’t work. They don’t know what it is. I realize that for life to be a story, one must have an eager audience. No novel is woven out of words for the sake of hearing the symphony. It is only written because the conductor begs someone to listen or to understand. It is the hope, I think, the hope that someone will appreciate the keeps them typing aimlessly or purposely however they set about it. There has to be a goal, always is, even if it’s self-awareness.
Only in the bound book, hidden in the secret places, stashed in a backpack, clasped between pale hands or tucked into a drawer are the secrets spilled out with ink.
Sirens squeal other stories outside this building in the heart of the city.
I sit, saying nothing, wasting energy for the reader to comprehend.
But all is not lost.