Wit Fit Writer's Prompt for October 2nd, 2014.
Word Prompt: Scourge
Scenario: Relive the past or see into the future?
The rolling "r" sound always tripped her up. It had for as long as she could remember. Her tongue couldn't say it right, and she didn't feel like it was her tongue's fault. Her brain thought it was made one way, but when it came out she knew it wasn't right. It wasn't just the "r", really. It had to have a shrill sound right before it, or a grunting guttural vowel, for her mouth to really make mush of it.
Girl became "gourrel".
Squirrel became "skorwel".
Scourge became "skerage".
And each time her tongue tried to form the word she would blush pink, reliving the embarrassment of elementary school years that came with a brain that was able to handle the six syllable words and a tongue that couldn't even pronounce "word" without making it sound too long and soft.
Years later, teaching college level courses and presenting nerdy academic papers, she would find herself avoiding simple words. Her fear that her mouth would fail her and make a fool of her in front of a class of fifty was intense, given her confidence with the concepts and material that were the real trick of each talk.
Each mispronounced word bringing her back to pigtails and people so confused about why she was speaking of sea gulls, when all she wanted to say was "girl".
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Wit Fit Prompt - 10/1/14
Wit Fit Writer's Prompt for October 1st, 2014.
Words: Porter, portray, portico.
She didn't always use her world to the best of her ability. It was a flaw she could feel, this inability to functionally organize all of the energy and passion and strength she always had rattling in her skull. She felt like a bull in a china shop, but instead of shards of china she left the overwhelming unimportant chunks of her chaotic life in her wake. Too many pairs of shoes for the back of a car to reasonably hold. Cereal bowls with remnants of oatmeal sitting for days while her brain pursued more exciting bits of the universe.
Her front porch was proof of this. Plants, and two metal sitting chairs from the fifties, sat on the covered space. The portico was screened to keep the insects out. It should have been warm and inviting, but instead it always seemed to be her home's first line of defense against her. The shoes that made it in from her trunk but failed to make it all the way to the rack. The jacket then wet and now dry. Still sitting from an unexpected downpour. A stack of recycling that had not made it all the way out to the curb. Gardening tools that still lived where they had been set after a sweaty afternoon weeks before, crusty muddy gloves still keeping them company.
A shame, she thought. Each time she pulled up to the house. A shame. Such a charming space, her side street protecting it from the chaos of the world, perfect for sitting and drinking a cold porter beer or iced coffee. Maybe cider, to match the cooling nights and warming fall colors. But instead it only worked to portray her personal chaos to the world. To show them the nastiest shreds of her daily failures. It reminded her of walking past the neighbors trash when that mean old gray tomcat had gotten into it. Their shameful sugary treat wrappers, too many beer cans, their bathroom trash, all over the sidewalk for the whole world to see.
She wished she could leave an annotated note on the space. "Please Pardon, my excited brain has too many other things to consider..." But even to herself the explanations rang with the tense high pitch of an excuse. So instead she just walked inside quickly, keeping her eyes down like a small guilty child. Avoiding eye contact with the clutter that spoke to her clumsy bull nature.
Words: Porter, portray, portico.
She didn't always use her world to the best of her ability. It was a flaw she could feel, this inability to functionally organize all of the energy and passion and strength she always had rattling in her skull. She felt like a bull in a china shop, but instead of shards of china she left the overwhelming unimportant chunks of her chaotic life in her wake. Too many pairs of shoes for the back of a car to reasonably hold. Cereal bowls with remnants of oatmeal sitting for days while her brain pursued more exciting bits of the universe.
Her front porch was proof of this. Plants, and two metal sitting chairs from the fifties, sat on the covered space. The portico was screened to keep the insects out. It should have been warm and inviting, but instead it always seemed to be her home's first line of defense against her. The shoes that made it in from her trunk but failed to make it all the way to the rack. The jacket then wet and now dry. Still sitting from an unexpected downpour. A stack of recycling that had not made it all the way out to the curb. Gardening tools that still lived where they had been set after a sweaty afternoon weeks before, crusty muddy gloves still keeping them company.
A shame, she thought. Each time she pulled up to the house. A shame. Such a charming space, her side street protecting it from the chaos of the world, perfect for sitting and drinking a cold porter beer or iced coffee. Maybe cider, to match the cooling nights and warming fall colors. But instead it only worked to portray her personal chaos to the world. To show them the nastiest shreds of her daily failures. It reminded her of walking past the neighbors trash when that mean old gray tomcat had gotten into it. Their shameful sugary treat wrappers, too many beer cans, their bathroom trash, all over the sidewalk for the whole world to see.
She wished she could leave an annotated note on the space. "Please Pardon, my excited brain has too many other things to consider..." But even to herself the explanations rang with the tense high pitch of an excuse. So instead she just walked inside quickly, keeping her eyes down like a small guilty child. Avoiding eye contact with the clutter that spoke to her clumsy bull nature.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
The Riot Grrrl Collection: Edited by Lisa Darms
Angry pissed off Riot Grrrl punk was the anthem of a particularly mundane “color in the lines” period of my life. When I was in grad school I would sit alone in a little lab room, entering data or running stats, and Bikini Kill and Calamity Jane would blast through the shitty speakers. One wall of the room was bright orange, for some unknown reason, and I managed to write thousands of words in APA style while Riot Grrrl angst bounced around the bright tiny room.
Now, years later, my mind is building creativity. I have abandoned that world of data entry for one of nerdy writing and slam poetry and mail art. Yet the universe keeps building infinity loops. Round and round. And so, the Riot Grrl movement has come back again. This time, in the form of The Riot Grrrl Collection, an archival collection of zines and writings and goodies edited by Lisa Darms. I noticed this collection on the ever exciting new materials shelf at my local library and had to take a look.
The book is a carefully curated collection of zines, pamplets, letters, and lyrics from the Riot Grrl movement. It comes from the personal papers of women like Kathleen Hanna and Johanna Fateman and is an excellent example of the archivists value at documenting the less tangible moments of a historical movement, in the thick.
This collection speaks to the feminist movement, and the creation of a space where women feel safe. It is easy to look at the times around us and label our times as progressive. The Riot Grrrl movement shows that the current progress is built on the marginalized foundation of the women who came before.
Awareness of street harassment through websites like ihollaback.org has been growing, but lyric drafts from The Riot Grrl Collection show that punk rock icons like Kathleen Hanna were ruminating on street harassment twenty-five years ago.
hair on your face and glasses that hid your eyes
you slow down at the stop light
you start to stare at me
and this happens, a thousand times
and this happens, a thousand times
why is your favorite pasttime
making me feel like i’m pinned to wax
why is your favorite hobby
reminding me that i’m being watched
your eyes
and your half smile
look like
they will eat me
your eyes
and your half smile
look like
they will eat me
- Draft Lyrics, [Hair on your face and glasses that hid your eyes}, Kathleen Hanna, circa 1989. The Kathleen Hanna Papers
I would like to believe that we have made progress when it comes to domestic and relationship violence, yet reading the accounts in the Riot Grrrl Collection, I feel like they could be written by my friends today. Relationships often find themselves built on a skeleton of power structure and violence. On page 55/56 there is a story titled “The Tribulation” about a woman’s struggle with a boyfriend beating and forcing her to participate in sexual acts with one of her friends. Similarly, a story on page 89 documents a woman’s slow infatuation on her waitress and the eventual witnessing of a man acting abusive towards her crush.
The discussion of the sexualized nature of power struggles comes up again and again. Sometimes it speaks to the larger conversation, outside of the confines of our individual relationships.
Do I shut my own mouth, or is there a cock down my throat? And do i simultaneously have my cock down someone else’s throat? Do i? Do you?
-Zine, Girl Germs no. 3, Molly Neuman and Allison Wolfe, circa 1992. The Molly Neuman Riot Grrrl Collection.
In BIKINIKILL #2 a clip discusses revolution.
A belief in instant revolution is just what THE POWERS THT BE want. That way we won’t realize that WE ARE THE REVOLUTION. It’ll look so hard and instant and far off, someday, someday, that we won’t even try to enact it right now.
-Zine, excerpt, Thorne no. 2, Kelly Marie Martin, 1992. The Kelly Marie Martin Riot Grrrl Collection.
The Riot Grrrl Collection reminds me that the revolution is gradual. That it is building. That change is building and that what is now mainstream (catcalling = street harassment, domestic violence as a topic of conversation) was mainly the fodder for the absurd angry feminist zines twenty-five years ago. Reading through the zines and pamplets and letters of this movement allowed me to better understand the gradual errosion path that progress takes. It is not instantaneous, one song or one poem or one zine will NOT change the world. But it is setting the foundation for the next generation of thinkers and doers. It is the drop that someday will become the roaring river.
It also influenced my perception of zine creation and compilation. Lisa Darms did a beautiful job editing the collection. It is inspiring.
Overall, I encourage any angry feminist, be you young and spiteful or old and saggy, to read through this collection.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
I am...
I am this.
I am a shirtless paperback,
thumb thickness of well thumbed pages,
no title, no smiling author.
Just smoked stained shimmers,
and slivers,
of stranger's lives.
I am the glued binding showing it's teeth,
capitalistic illegitimacy,
whose words read the same.
I am a 200 calorie cliff bar,
snagged at 12:47 pm,
swallowed quickly,
not quite a meal,
but enough to settle stomach lining shudders.
I am never enough to sit satiated,
Harlequinn happy tryptophan.
But enough to tide a hungry man over.
I am the four shots in my five chamber 38 special.
Steady swagger chin up,
unsure enough in this concrete maze,
to leave trigger tug,
of noncommittal shrug.
I am bullets in the gun,
but gun tucked out of sight.
Smiling politely,
shoulders back,
while hands shake in hoodie pockets.
I am this.
Inverse educated idiot.
Knowledge without a publishers mark.
A feast without five stars.
Four fifths committed to tomorrow.
I am never all in, but always in.
Naked fractured commitment.
I am this.
I am a shirtless paperback,
thumb thickness of well thumbed pages,
no title, no smiling author.
Just smoked stained shimmers,
and slivers,
of stranger's lives.
I am the glued binding showing it's teeth,
capitalistic illegitimacy,
whose words read the same.
I am a 200 calorie cliff bar,
snagged at 12:47 pm,
swallowed quickly,
not quite a meal,
but enough to settle stomach lining shudders.
I am never enough to sit satiated,
Harlequinn happy tryptophan.
But enough to tide a hungry man over.
I am the four shots in my five chamber 38 special.
Steady swagger chin up,
unsure enough in this concrete maze,
to leave trigger tug,
of noncommittal shrug.
I am bullets in the gun,
but gun tucked out of sight.
Smiling politely,
shoulders back,
while hands shake in hoodie pockets.
I am this.
Inverse educated idiot.
Knowledge without a publishers mark.
A feast without five stars.
Four fifths committed to tomorrow.
I am never all in, but always in.
Naked fractured commitment.
I am this.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Today
Today has been a day of:
soaking up hot showers, my bones are still not use to this cold.
frying up bacon with brussel sprouts. Dash of minced garlic, and I am in heaven.
fixing couscous. Specifically whole wheat couscous with pomegranate and shrimp. My supper tonight, both our lunches tomorrow. (His with pretzels on the side, mine with more brussel sprouts, because bacon is delicious.)
drinking a jelly jar of white zin. Again, my bones are still not use to this cold.
anticipating a mailbox full of goodness.
contemplating good things to come. I am just around the bend from great big changes. The sort of changes that require lots of before and after pictures, and lots of hours of peeling and painting and scrubbing.
I hope all your worlds are as gloriously delicious as mine, but with a few degrees tacked on the thermometer.
soaking up hot showers, my bones are still not use to this cold.
frying up bacon with brussel sprouts. Dash of minced garlic, and I am in heaven.
fixing couscous. Specifically whole wheat couscous with pomegranate and shrimp. My supper tonight, both our lunches tomorrow. (His with pretzels on the side, mine with more brussel sprouts, because bacon is delicious.)
drinking a jelly jar of white zin. Again, my bones are still not use to this cold.
anticipating a mailbox full of goodness.
contemplating good things to come. I am just around the bend from great big changes. The sort of changes that require lots of before and after pictures, and lots of hours of peeling and painting and scrubbing.
I hope all your worlds are as gloriously delicious as mine, but with a few degrees tacked on the thermometer.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Frosty Mornings...
The chickens are tractored right out near the brassicas right now. When I went out to feed the ladies this morning I realized that there was a real solid frost last night. Beautiful, but a little scary.
Luckily, it looks like they survived this round. Plus, as a bonus the cold killed some of the cabbage-pillers. Hopefully we will have broccoli and brussel sprouts, if they can survive just a little longer.
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