melbyfreitag

11:20am:

The Wild Rose Random Brutal Love Dreamer (RBLDf) shmolorful, but unpicked. You are The Wild Rose. Prone to bouts of cynicism, sarcasm, and thorns, you excite a certain kind of woman. Hoping to gather you up, she flirts and winks and asks you out, ultimately professing her love. Then you make her bleed. Why? Because you're the rare, independent, self-sufficient kind of woman who does want love, but not from a weakling. You don't seem to take yourself too seriously, and that's refreshing. You aren't uptight; you don't over-plan. Romance-wise, sex isn't a top priority--a true relationship would be preferable. For your age, you haven't had a lot of bonafide love experience, though, and this kind of gets to core of the issue. You're very selective. Your exact opposite: The Dirty Little Secret Deliberate Gentle Sex Master The problem is them, not you, right? You have lofty standards that few measure up to. You're out there all right, but not to be picked up by just anyone. "You're never truly single as long as you have yourself." ALWAYS AVOID: The Dirty Little Secret CONSIDER: The Sudden Departure. Link: The 32-Type Dating Test by OkCupid - Free Online Dating. My profile name: melbysplace

8:45pm: Fooraud
i feel hungry, but I don’t want food in my mouth

8:40pm: N
Turn on the off button
Forever and a day
Cliches, forlorn
Not cumming anymore
Not listening, not giving, not receiving
Enough to hurt self, but the only one who gives her scratches
Is her cat
Or is it the Other’s cat

Need some space, move away from same sex
Need some space, move away from Midwest
Need some space, move away from same bed
Need some space, move away from same room
Need some space, move me out of your room
Need some space, move me out
Need some space, move out
Need some space, move
Need some space
Need some
Need
None
Anymore

10:04am: BaCk sdraw
OK, so
WHAT WOULD IT BE LIKE TO EAT A MAN?

I have indigestion
from a gender
that is not my own.

My ovaries—swaying from side to side
Rock a bi baby
My uterus—always hanging that waaay laaaying over you
Wanted to reach inside of it, of clit, of it
2 flaps of skin that represent my permission slip
that you signed for awhile

White straight upper class men, trying to be liberal.
Trying to play the game of hiring a black womin
From chatanuuuuuuuuga too bad I didn’t see ya on the flip side
White straight upper class east coast men,
Men that ask about babies being born and labor and labor and labor
Polite men, open doors but still believe womyn should work
Men that ask about labor
The labor of my desires
Too bad I never saw ya on the flip side
Of those desires

What would it be like to swallow these men, you say?
I think I would have an upset stomach today.
Alice in Wonderland select from the following options:

Mid cornfield
girl meets girl
Mid year
girl fucks girl
Mid sentence
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you
I love you I love you I love

We’re on the same page
The pages of grant proposals for women’s centers OR proposals for marriage,
I mean, people get married everyday, or live together beforehand at least.
I’m just sleeping in your bed, that’s all.
In my head.
I want validity that I am the only one hearing this.

That’s why my body is close to yours.

I have indigestion
From a marriage
That is not my own.

What would it be like to eat a marriage?

The straight game. Don’t want to play that one no more. Hard piece of petrified wood, purified for cunts everywhere. Billboard reads: purified cunts, do you want your pussies to bleeeeeeeeed open for a piece of petrified wood?! Wwww(chuckle)wwwwwwwwwwwell then step right up and become a heterosexual woman!!! That’s right, you lucky children, you get to play the EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVe game, oops the evening game I mean, of sex under the covers penis inserts in vagina when no one is watching grieving yearning for more blasphemy!

God created man and woman man plus woman man always inside her inside her chiming the same words, but not really, not really the same words, not clit on clit noooooooo(chuckle)oooooo that would be too alike, too alike, parallel worlds, parallel cunts, want to touch my pussy on yours, like for real, wetness, here, I’ll HAND you some of mine, if you want.

Fighting the cold hot muggy cool soft nights that are the façade of desire. Fighting the mattresses pushed together, playing small games, like will you (ten year period) masturbate in front of me. Maybe, maybe when I’m massaging you, when the ten year period is on top of me, then I’ll sliiiiiiiiide my hands, simultaneously of course, down to the gaps gapes of your arms, and pretend I’m putting them underneath your armpits when really
(shhhhh it’s a secret)
really I’ll be putting them on the sides of your breasts.

Shh. Though. It’s a secret.

WHAT WOULD IT BE LIKE TO EAT MY POLITICS?

Well, I’ll tell you. You can get your Masters degree and then get tortured by

1. being on the east coast, seeing the webs of grass and greens and shrubs that look almost as complex as the folds of skin that I live with that you don’t know are there, underneath your mound

2. being on the east coast, seeing my love get dressed get wet, those little stubs that reach up, that are bigger than your mound, that are raw.
I would even fucking wipe your ass, if you let me.

3. being on the east coast, seeing my cigarette, smoke in the wind coming to work, sitting, pull up a chair chair chair chair, all four of you, my new little bitches, twiddling thumbs. Ha ha! What will I do with you today?!

4. being on the east coast, getting money, not loving what I do. Not absolutely wanting to leave every second, even this second, look up, it’s Friday afternoon and you’re not happy. You never laugh anymore, too much text or mess or something. Too much woman.

5. being on the east coast with my grub, my love, my mons, and not being happy.

Mel might become an average Jane…not jayne like her mother jayne. Worse. I’d rather be an adultress than anything
But
Ordinary.

What would it be like to eat my words?

Just juvenile, that’s all it is, those embarrassing words above us right now.
Down here, down here we’re all pretty in pink and sink to the lower lowest lows slow lows owls of slow lows.

I always knew you were a bottom dweller, but man, come on! No person is an island! Pull yourself up! Nothing lasts for ever! That’s the crux, though isn’t it?

No, what do you mean, what do you mean?

That’s the crux of forever and a day. There is no such thing.

11:37am: Some quiz I took b/c I'm bored. More later.

You fit in with: Spiritualism Your ideals are mostly spiritual, but in an individualistic way. While spirituality is very important in your life, organized religion itself may not be for you. It is best for you to seek these things on your own terms. 50% spiritual. 40% reason-oriented.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

1:08pm: Wow....wow!
Well, everyone, tune in for a new, Maryland-based, Mel b Freitag....working on my new book to be published in a few years...maybe one, maybe none. Sitting at my new office desk job....some hot lezzies in the balt/dc area, let me tell you ... where can I start with the misadventures of mel b freitag?! still having a hell of a time getting my vehicle registered in maryland...but my bumper stickers DO get all the womyn...or at least little notes on my windshield--sometimes even with a number ;) ... I now have two cats...Dante and Bailey...two little boys respectively.

I actually miss the cornfields and flatlanders in IL tho....the swampy, muggy, rainy vines and shrubs and trees that wrap around each other -- i want to jump out my car on the way to work in the mornings and wrap my body around the trees...frolick a little in the fog before my mind gets too wrapped (warped) up in politics. lol.

I want to hear from life in Normal...is anybody out there??

2:15pm: late
sears and kmart merged.
bush won. or did he?
powell quit.
i wake up with nightmares that we all got nuked.
my arm was asleep and i thought i was dying.
i made sure my cat was next to me.
so why would i go protest the inauguration?
so why would i protest isuskanks.com?
so why would i try to find a job?
in this---

i wrote part of my thesis proposal.
no creative juices flowing at the moment.
maybe ill go on a bike ride in the middle of this warm
day
it's supposed to rain this weekend
i am bloated.
i will get my period in T minus 24 hours.
i will do 4 loads of laundry when i go home
on saturday
i will go home on saturday
infultrate
confuse
mediate
meditate
placate
forge
i
n
c
o
h
e
r
e
n
t.....................

2:44pm: "My name is Mel, I live on the second floor. You live next door to me...."

Mel almost killed Toro. We are going to a vag!!!!!!!!! party!!!!!!!!! YES!!! Highlight of my week(Sandi's week I mean). Probably because I'm a loser. But, anyways..... I love "B." B is my little kitty that looks like a scrawny rat. I like to hang B upside down and by his arm pits. I like B's armpits.

Keeeeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeeee.......... Mel is talking to you. BUt you never hear. You never seeeeeeeeeeeeee. You neeeeeeeevvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrr notice... So YOU SHALL DIE!

Hi bobby, next time you see your mother, can you let her know "SATAN!"

This is my alter ego, Wicked Witch Yo'!

Iiiiiiiiiii got to meet Mellie's sis. I won't have enough time to taint her now, but I will soon. Very sooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnn.

Keeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeeee,
Why are you laughing. You stare at your computer and laugh at your computer. Why! Tell me why! When I am horribly bored in this class, you laugh at your computer and I WANT TO KNOW WHY!!!!


Mel said I'm not allowed to talk. She said I am not me. BUt I am. I am the Wicked Witch Yo'!
"HI BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

2:41pm: Disclaimer
Just to let everyone know, the next post is not mine. It is some mysterious girl's writing about me, for me, to me. Whatever the case, read at your own risk.....

10:44pm: place
so i try to delegate and give things, tasks to other people
i am not a type a personality dammit
not
what ellen calls
tbd
too busy disorder
so the pr people didn't hand out the flyers or tabletents or handbills
don't freak out mel
so the pr people didn't get them up because it was
raining
when i was just marching
in the rain
hair
cordoroys
eyelashes
cotton
coat
soaked
and they don't want to put flyers up because of that?
bullshit i'll just fucking do it
i'll take it you little complacent bastards
our society doesn't say shit
i dont want to go alone out mel
i dont want to go to the bar alone
i dont want to put up flyers because it is raining
but i wont tell you i didnt
until you ask
take away the conversation,
mel,
with customer service representatives
that dont know how to communicate to me
so i have to take away the conversation from them
the conversation
that was never theirs
there
they're
silence
your silence will not protect you
audre lorde
the culture of fear
my sister reads it for class
im fearful that if we switch presidents than there's more of a risk of terrorism, my friend tells me
im fearful that i wont be able to swear if im a kkk person
when i am acting, educating for social exposure
for political exposure
i dont want our group to be political
just bisexual lesbian womyn
isn't the political in and of itself?
whendoescomplacencySTOPandactionbegin?
today, when i am surrounded by men
and womyn
men and womyn
who shout, what do you want? SAFE SPACe
when do you want it?
NOW?
what do you want?
action, lack of complacency, lack of sobriety, lack of silence
lack of fruition, lack of superstition, lack of reluctance, lack of passivity, lack of traditional fucking womyn voting for bush because they're husbands make over 200K, or maybe, just maybe, they do
what do you want?
lack of domination, lack of subordination, lack of reliability, lack of certainity,
because god dammit we're there already
we're theirs and we're there and we aren't ready
we aren't acting, we aren't promoting, we aren't sustaining, we aren't being and sexing and believing
that we can have that rhythm within us
that ticks and moves slow and moves fast and moves
within

8:46pm: Click
Why does that skateboard make the
click-click noise everytime it rolls
over another crack between the
square concrete slabs?
Shy can't the concerte slabs
instead be a smooth surface, no
cracks, like bike trails and roads?
Is something missing if the skater can't feel the weight--
dipping down when s/he feels the crack--
Is something lost when the texture,
grainy, of the concrete is replaced.
What about the way ink feels on paper
or the callous I permanently have
on my middle finger (that I
used to think was cancer?)
Is something lost when we feel the hard plastic squares
underneath our fingers and see an illusion of text
in front of us instead of the original hard copy
at our fingertips?
Digital, Shmigital.

Are cell phones better? Interrupting my thoughts--still writing
while I'm talking to my sister.
messed
up
One thing One thought leads to another
At night
instead of counting sheep
I would think of this or that
and then retrace my thoughts
go backwards
like a fine-toothed comb
brushing through the intricacies
of my mind
Then I'd stop--I couldn't
remember what initially made me
think of the skateboards for instance,
or look up at the guy on the skateboarding on the concrete
with the click click noise
of the wheels hitting the cracks.
But by then, I'd be flirting with
the threshold of being alive
and being asleep--
a curious juxtaposition
indeed.

12:14am: Taut
"A book or a binding can also be too cultivated, just as there are houses which are so well-kept that one can scarcely feel at home in them." Franz Zeier

Wet, dripping out of shower. Maroon cotton towel around my soaking body. Drip. Glance in the mirror behind me, tattoo on pure, white skin. Canvas. Switch song back to Dido. Reminds me of times lost, before, three years ago. Calm beat, subtle, sexy, lingering, chasing, feigning. Cotton underwear. Purple from Victoria's Secret. Bikini style. Still sexy, but subtle. Black lacy bra that my mom's friend Vicki gave to me after her breast reduction. Still fits me, though. Slip on brown cordoroys from Old Navy. Size 16. They are getting baggier on me. Sandles on. Bought them at Walmart before my trip to San Fran. Comfortable, brown. Match with the brown cords. Walk to bathroom. Spray water into hair. Fluff it, play with it, mess it up. Put Aussie hair gel in it. Brush the front, longer locks of black hair with brown roots. Need to re-die this mofo hair. Part it, overlap hair over part, zig zag, zig zag. Bobby pins sporadically placed, up over ear. Hair behind ears. Walk to bedroom. Slip olive green tank top with lace over boobs. Mom bought tank for me one week ago at JCPenney for $2.77. What a deal. Is there enough fabric to cover my boobs today? Yes, the tank reaches over my belly button and below it. Lots of cleavage. Too much? Yes. Keep it on? Yes. It's cold outside. Put on maroon button up long-sleeved shirt I bought at Goodwill. Form-fitting, doesn't button because my boobs are too big. Doesn't matter, it covers my arms. Back to bathroom. Foundation from Neutrogena sample. Over nose, over cheeks, neck, forehead. Rub. Never wear foundation because I break out. But it evens out skin. Black eyeliner, start on top of eye, close as I can get to lashes, over to the side, then loop down to bottom of eye. Blend. Eye shadow. Cover girl. Dark brown. Used to wear blue but it looked too fake. Want darker. Am darker. Mascara. Don't know the brand. Curl up, then shut eyes. Enough? Eyes need to be dark. Want to see the blue coming through the darkness. Blush with big brush. Start up above ear, come down like a banana. Don't need much. Cheeks are always read. Dark maroonish lip gloss I just bought from Rammil at Walmart. Shiny with color. There. Turn around, look at back of hair, look at ass, turn back. Smack lips. Squint eyes, smile. Ready.

What makes you feel sexy?

We ask this to random partiers standing outside in small circles with their bottles and cigarettes or both on a crisp, dark Saturday night. This Saturday night. They are drunk, they are smoking, guys are around, so maybe they'll give better answers. Different. Answers. Walking up to random college womyn and asking them what made them feel sexy seemed unnatural to me, but then again, the girls out partying performed as much as us, maybe more. Excited voices, jumping up and down--I'm going to be in the newspaper! Before any answers, before any realizations. Then,
"I ask my friends how I look and I always look original."
"I'm bound to look different because my mom is Israeli."
Or maybe it's "a cute outfit", or "cleavage", or "makeup", or "alcohol".
Or maybe it's because "she's from California" or "listening to Sublime before" or "asking my roommates how I look" or "sparkles".
Or maybe "I don't feel sexy tonight".
Maybe they wouldn't have answered us, told us they didn't feel sexy if we didn't look that way, my friend reminded me to "look good" before I went out on our reporting exercise because women will respond better to sexy women. What makes you feel sexy? What if a man had asked them that? Would they have told him about their sparkles and low-cut jeans? Would they have told him more? After five parties, the answers were predictable, all the same, a dime a dozen. We quit after an hour. Were we going to the right parties? Isn't sexiness more than cute clothes or how you put your eyeliner on?

What about--
what about--
What makes you feel sexy?
What makes you sexy?
What about the way you move,
swaying hips, bend over to pick something up
ass, the way the fabric hangs over it
feeling velvet or silk or nothing
against your skin
canvas
your voice
low and grounded at times, soft, smooth around the edges
piercing, laughing, glancing
Eyes, fierce
blue, hazel, brown, blue-hazel, brown-hazel
slightly squinting, wondering
protruding out
What about the way you smell,
like soap, clean, sultry
subtle, everyone knows you're there when you enter a room
What about the colors
dark, black, maroon, always
button down, a little cleavage a lot cleavage
lingering lines, shadows
soft skin, silky, smooth,
smile, lots of teeth, crooked or straight
What about lips, wetting them with tongue
What about wrists, bending, leading
covered up with black bands or leather
wrists are anticipation
What about hands, dexterous
curvy movements, up and down
the way you hold a book, turn a page
the way you grab the wheel, the way you type on the keys
hands, the way you hold
What about shoulders, forearms, stomachs, inner thighs, ankles, toes
What about food, taste, ice cream, chocolate,
biting into an apple, munching, chewing,
What about the night air, darkness, snow, cold
What about temperature, extreme hot and cold, muggy, stale air, bitter, you can see your breath in the air
What about words, repetition, precision
when you say that
when you say this
when you say it
What about confidence, or being
humble, unsure, confused, intrigued, content,
Wild, frustrated, climactic, building, rising,
What about the way a pen moves on paper, or the sound scissors make when they cut fabric, or the way a tulip brushes your cheek
What about the way cedar smells or the way noodles slide on your tongue or how hydrogen peroxide tickles the inside of your ear,
What about the wind blowing papers around or the grain of a new book and the natural bends and rips of an old one
in your hands?
What makes you feel sexy?
Lingering sensuousness
Lingering senses
around, here, there.
Lingering beauty, waiting, anticipating
to be seen, heard,
tasted, touched, stroked, caressed,
nestled, held, hugged, wrapped
Beauty
Waiting to be had.

"I wonder if a wild tree planted in the middle of an orchard landscape can make the reverse happen, can unstring this taut garden, and allow the cultivated plants all around it to sound the clear note of their own in born wildness, now muffled. There can be no civilization without wildness, such a tree would remind us, no sweetness absent its astringent opposite."

Pollan, Botany of Desire

2:21pm: Excess passion
How can someone have excess passion? Does that mean that somehow my passion is overflowing, that I need to lend it to someone else? That I have enough for myself, too much for myself, so I have to give it up? Excess, shmexcess. Too much of anything is not a good thing. Too much of one person, too much food, alcohol, sex, gambling, addiction.
Am I addicted to passion?
Do I write passionately for the sake of writing passionately, fervently, intensely--or am I really a passionate person? I think the way I perceive myself is very different from what I come across as. Bold, independent, heavy-handed. Where is the soft vulnerable girl child womyn? Is she still in there, is she still passionate?
Passion:
A powerful emotion, such as love, joy, hatred, or anger.
Ardent love.
Strong sexual desire.
Lust.
The object of such love or desire.
Boundless enthusiasm.
The object of such enthusiasm.
The object of my desires.
The object is passionate, the subject is passionate.
Too much
Tooo much
Toooo much emotion to hold into
hold in
hold into
me
emotional being
too womynly
too wishy-washy, fluid, slipping through the cracks between
virginity and slut
am i the whore or the purest of pure angels
which is the facade
or can i be both
you bipolar fool
cant i be both,
passionate purity?
The purest passion

11:33pm: Are Our Bodies
Are our bodies_____________________

The body. We glorify it, honor it, objectify it. Womyn’s bodies. We idealize pregnant womyn, mothers, who have tolerated the pain of childbirth and lived to tell the tale. We silence womyn who have endured the pain of abortion and rape or both.
Our bodies are our scripts, our catalysts, our representation of a forged identity. We wear tight jeans or loose pants, we feel the texture of the fabric on our skin, rough, suave, too much, too little. Our bodies tell stories, with our scars or our blood or nauseous stomachs or vaginal soreness.
Our bodies have blood coming out of them, cramps aching inside of them, lovers penetrating into them and out of them. Our bodies are illustrations, storybooks. Our bodies are sensual and sensitive. Our bodies love sex and hate sex and tell us about fear by hair raised and goosebumps, tell us about love by hair raised and goosebumps, tell us about sex and intimacy, closeness and validity, and oppression, suppression, repression.
The body.
Our bodies are violated, by lovers and strangers and even ourselves.
Our bodies are touched, caressed, nestled in the comfort of a lover’s smooth
and safe arms.
The body.
Our body.
Our bodies are ours.
Our bodies are.


If men could get pregnant,

On the phone last April with a loved one.
“Melissa, I have some news.”
“What is it, tell me! Someone died, right?” I always expect the worst
possible scenario to soften the blow of the more realistic response to my
unanswered questions.
“No, you know how I have been sick lately and I know that it’s not a
hang over because I haven’t been drinking that much?”
I knew it. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? I had just seen her a
few days before that and should have known. Being the self-proclaiming
observant and analytical person, I should have known. This person is someone I loved. I should have known before this, before she told me over the phone, before she made me guess, before she--
“You’re pregnant.”
“Yes.”

What do you want? Choice! When do you want it? Now!

Washington, D.C. It has been awhile since I have been on the East coast. We drive 17 hours to get to our destination, and sit and wait some more
before the big day. Tomorrow. Sunday, April 25, 2004. It’s on all the
buttons, T-Shirts, faces of anxious marchers awaiting, waiting. March for
Women’s Lives. Womyn’s Lives. Not just abortion, not just gay rights, not
just sex education. All of it. The whole fucking thing. Women’s Lives
encompasses and gives birth to, what my grandfather, what my mother, could not. They ask:
“So you’re marching for gay rights, right?”
Of course, I must be marching as solely a lesbian and solely for lesbian rights if I am political, if I am a political person, a political womyn. I couldn’t possibly be advocating reproductive rights when, because of
my identity, can’t wake up one morning with a queasy stomach and be worried
that I may have a fertalized egg inside of me, inside of me.
I couldn’t possibly be wanting to advocate choice for my loved ones, my loved one that told me she was pregnant 4 days before the March. Or for all the female friends I supported and took to Planned Parenthood to get an STD or pregnancy test. Or for my friends and lovers who have stuck their fingers down their throats and come out of bathrooms with watery eyes or were exhausted from climbing one flight of stairs because they hadn’t eaten all day. Or for all womyn who do not, cannot tell their lover what they want and what they don’t want, for all the womyn who have faked orgasms, or were too afraid to ask how to put a condom on correctly, or didn’t have the confidence to tell their lover, not there. Here.
Or for finding access for my sister to get on birth control because, at
the age of 14, she got pregnant. Or for listening to my same sister’s story about her being raped at the age of 8, at the age of 8, by a stranger when walking home down the street that we drove passed every day, the street where our house stood, where we made a home. Or for hearing a friend‘s story about being raped by someone she knew and then was impregnated and then had an abortion at 15. Or for finding out that a loved one has genital herpes or an old friend from childhood is HIV Positive.
I couldn’t possibly be advocating womyn’s lives for these reasons. For
my sister’s life, my mother’s life, my friend’s life, my lover’s life, for my
life.
For our lives, the personal is political.
For our lives.


If men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament.

“So what are you thinking about doing?” I had no idea if she wanted to
keep this baby, how much she had thought about it, where she was at in her decision making process, where she and her boyfriend were at in the process.
“I really don’t know. I know I need to get counseling, we both need to
get counseling. Where should I go? I looked up abortion in the phone book and there were only listings for adoption agencies. I just want to talk to someone neutral about my options, about what I‘m feeling.
Where can I do that?”
A day later.
“I know I’m not stable enough to take care of a child. I want to live
my life, to travel and go to school. It would be the end of my relationship, too. It would be the end of us. I‘ve called around all day looking for a doctor to check me, to see how far along I am. Every time I tell them I‘m pregnant, they tell me to start thinking about pre-natal vitamins, and say that I can get an appointment in the next few weeks, assuming I‘m having the child. I think abortion is what we’re deciding, but I still want to be able to talk with someone who is knowledgeable about the options and can give us answers.”
“I’m glad you’re being realistic about your options, and I think this
is the right choice for you at this point,” And part of me was relieved. She obviously wasn’t ready, in so many different ways.
I told my friend about it while eating tacos. I had to tell someone,
especially given the uncanny timing of the pregnancy and the march, all within
2 weeks.
“So in a way, you’ll be marching for her in DC.”
“Yes, I will.”

Personal is Political

The personal is political and the political is personal. Signs all
around me, bright pink T-Shirts--This is What a Feminist Looks like--worn by womyn, men, lesbian, straight, children, grandmothers. Cheering, laughter, families, single people, 80 year old couple holding hands with oxygen tanks, celebrities standing at the podium 50 feet from me yelling, Keep your Laws off my Body!
The personal is political.
I march beside my sister, who decided to come less than 48 hours before
the march. There was an extra seat that opened, and she took it.
I march beside the president of the glbt organization on campus, my
sweet, surprising friend who inspired me to come in the first place.
I march beside the only male womyn’s studies minor at ISU, I just met
him, he holds a sign that says, “Another Adopted Kid for Choice.” I never knew he was adopted.
I march beside people I don’t know, people with bright pink T-Shirts on
and bright orange.
I march beside people on the sidewalks that look at me with their graphic pictures of bloody fetuses and shake their heads.
I march by people yelling the same word, again and again, keeping the
rhythm of our movement down the street, the volume soft at first but gaining momentum. One word. One response to the sidewalk dwellers, to the political right, to the ignorance of my grandfather and mother. Choice. Choice.
Choice.
I march.
I march.
We move slowly, through the streets and stoplights, by Washington
Monument, by the graphic pictures, on to the grass in front of the White House, lifting our signs up with both hands toward George Bush‘s Home, our bodies all moving toward, forward, moving slowly but fiercely near the Pro-Lifers. But we are pro life, too. A sign. Pro Family, Pro Child, Pro Life, PRO CHOICE.
We are pro life. We are for all the families, all the small children marching beside us, all the mom’s pushing strollers with their babies, all the couples holding hands, marching proudly near each other. We are for all people, all ages, all races, all religions, all sexualities, all feminisms. We move in a direction. We don’t need the map provided for us at the beginning of the March. We follow the people with friendly, bright T-Shirts in signs in front of us. We see the backs of their faces, hear their solidified voices, see their feet, one in front of the other. We trust that these bodies in front of us will move us toward our destination. But wait. This is our destination, this motion, this solidarity, this forwardness, this unified mass of thousands. Of millions. At first we hang on to each other’s backpacks so we don’t lose
each other, there are so many people, so many voices, so many bodies. When we get on to the street, there is more space and so we let go of each other. We let go. We trust, allow the people, the supporters, the marchers beside us lead the way, yet no one is leading. We lead and follow and trust each other. We are one, we see and feel and taste our bodies all together. We march for our bodies. We are our bodies.
We are.

2:43pm: (re)presentations
"The limits of my language mean the limits of my world."

It is somewhat counterproductive to only briefly mention phonology, grammar, and lexicon and then go immediately into the intricacies of typeface, type, and font itself. The two are much more enmeshed than that (the theory of language and the practice), and I agree with the assertion that typography has somehow been placed within the art and design programs of universities, when it really should be offered in the Writing programs. Baines and Haslam point out that "typography is to language what maps are to geography, scores are to music and algebra is to mathematics" (10). Why, then, is there such a separation between the visual elemtents and conceptual elements of language? Is it because our communication theories are skewed, or because language, specifically oral communication, is such an intimate part of human interaction (yes, and especially even outside of the classroom) ?

The body/mind dualism, which is a direct parallel to the visual/theoretical pairing, has manifested itself even in our most practical applications. How does the external relate to the internal? Is "the outward appearance of an object relate to its essential nature" (36)? And does the author, the creator, the writer have anything to do with how their piece is interpreted? Derrida would argue no, and then Barthes suggests that "the interior essense of self is actually defined by external readings" (36). Although it may be hard to admit, visual elements of our daily lives, and our interpretation of them deeply affect who we are, and maybe even define it. So what came first, the words or the ideas? The images or the meanings that we attach to them? Is it superficial to assume that the only tools we have to define who we are are the visual representations--expression of concepts (text and typology), expression of the world (photography, art, design) or expression of each other (body)?

"Well, Mel, we have eyes." My advisor reassured me one day when I was fretting about the risk of superficiality of visual representation in our/my everyday lives. Was I missing something when all I was talking about in this casual conversation was how I was perceived by others and then how others perceived me, specifically how I was representation? Or is it my modernist background that keeps me from believing that the only meaning we have is in images, in touch, in aurality, in our senses? Maybe someday I will be confident enough to admit that visual representation may be the window into ourselves, or the window itself. Until then, I'll continue to question my visual interpretations and ponder whether or not the meaning was there before I saw/said/heard it was.

"The eyes of [people] converse as much as their tongues."

7:44pm: Then
There are many endings and many beginnings and there is always, between ending and beginning, the very briefest of moments and in those moments, change, deep volatile change, is possible. To find that moment, to grasp it, embrace it, to change within it, that is the thurst of evolution. That is the moment of chaos, a higher order, the disorder of the gods, but order nevertheless.

Rhoda Lerman, The Book of the Night

12:11am: insatiable
that's not one of the options for the moods. Insatiable. i know im supposed to be writing a piece on the good body by eve ensler, in reaction to it. I saw her perform in san francisco this summer and i was disappointed...oops what a disgrace! did i say that i was *disapppointed* by eve ensler, the creator of the vagina monologues and the activist that started v-day. yes, i did. it probably means i have officially ended up in elitistville, a.k.a grad school, or maybe it just shows that i have issues with yes, even my fellow feminists.

im excited for the retreat. i get to do bafa bafa.

dont ask.

more later--im not in the lyrical mood.

5:39pm: Brown Eggs and Moore
"The sensitive observer must feel shape simply as shape, not as a description or idea. S/he must, for example, perceive an egg as a simple solid shape, quite apart from its significance to food, or from the idea that it will become a bird." Henry Moore.

Is this possible? Can we find an object, an article of clothing, the human form, or a text pleasing to the eye without thinking about the societal expectations, or even our own life experiences, placed on the object? If I almost drowned when I was little in a lake or if I grew up by the ocean with nothing but incredible memories of the beach and sand and swimming, will that not taint my view of water--will I not see it either as an abyss of fear or a warm memory of pleasure?

But then, we don't realize how much our outer, our visual world effects our thoughts. "We will be going to different places, locations, and write and explore and then discuss our writings and ramblings, whatever they may be, because *place* effects not only how you view the world, but the very thoughts you have." My writing professor tells us this. And it's true. If I were sitting in the coffeehouse with a new laptop, surrounded by gray-haired people after church on Sunday discussing their grandchildren, it would undoubtedly effect my writing about shapes or design or whatever.

But I'm not sitting in the coffeehouse today. Today I am sitting at my computer, sitting in a chair that I got from a dumpster on Main Street a year ago, surrounded by my piles of books not yet read, wondering where my cat is hiding, only hearing the tapping of my fingers on the keys.

This seemingly simplistic location greatly effects my thoughts. I am saturated in familiarity, comfortable and safe. What is the risk in staying safe? I wrote this question 3 years ago referring to relationships, but really, it can be applied to most anything, even my location and place, in the middle of a cornfield in Normal, IL. What is the risk in staying safe?

Everything here has sentimental value whether I want it to or not. My somewhat stolen chair, my computer that I stole from my dad's house, my books that I bought at an independent bookstore in Minneapolis.

Even the brown egg in my refridgerator reminds me that's it's cage-free, that I bought it at Wal-Mart, that this irony became a spring-board for me to write about, and ended up in one of my earlier pieces. Sorry, Henry Moore, an egg is not an egg is not an egg. Its form, its color, its location in my fridge, its origin, all effect how I view the egg. I cannot look at it as a separate entity, void of meaning, stripped of my experiences that I so intimately attach to it.

And then, what is the risk in denying our experiences with our objects, with our lovers,
with our words, with our eggs?

Can we have love affairs with the unknown,
find a woman merely aesthetically pleasing,
enjoy words for the sake of their placement or rhythm or font or size or color or shape?

Meaning is still attached to the unknown or the woman or the words, though. Even if it's just a little idiosyncratic moment or adventure that we had with the color blue
or a brunette woman
or the word intrigue
or a brown egg.

11:35am: Here's the link
http://hokev.brinkster.net/quiz/default.asp?quiz=Better+Relationship&page=1

11:33am: I did it, too
eXpressive: 8/10
Practical: 4/10
Physical: 4/10
Giver: 6/10


You are a XSIG--Expressive Sentimental Intellectual Giver. This makes you a Teddy Bear.

Hee! I just want to give you a big squeeze. You are tender, honest, generous and fair. You are an excellent kisser and a sensitive, communicative lover, and you know it. You would never intentionally hurt someone's feelings or overstep his/her boundaries. You have beautiful eyes.

Most people take your laid-back attitude, blazing wit and subtle sexiness and stick you in "friend." But some see your extreme hotness for what it is and latch on. This means you have a few members of your target sex in the bank at all times -- I call this "money in the sex bank" -- but you're too sensitive and thoughtful to exploit them. More than once.

You are so rational and deliberate in an argument that it can frustrate and exhaust your partner. Your fights can take forever, but your press on with them until they are completely resolved and both you and your partner are satisfied. If your partner is weak of will, s/he may just give in -- be wary of this! An emotional or passive-aggressive outburst later will hurt and horrify you.

It is *critically important* that you are able to respect your partner. The moment you lose respect for him/her, you lose everything.

When you make friends, you make them for life -- you can go without speaking to a friend for years and pick up right where you left off. You are completely faithful, both physically and emotionally. You are the second best (to XPIG) parent of any type.

If you are male, you have a huge shlong. Just saying.

Of the 22634 people who have taken this quiz, 10 % are this type.

10:39pm: Delicious Ambiguity
Alright, I admit I stole that phrase from Gilda Radner. It's the tail end of a quote that I read every morning, "delicious ambiguity" is in bold and ends the quote, followed by

. . .

3 little dots
That imply some sort of falling off
Or letting go or open
endedness
no limitations
I am so fucking uncomfortable with the unknown

but then
but then

"Most people pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it."

The unknown
for me for me it could be leading
to the pleasure
that pleasure
to the pain
and to the vulnerability
again

I'm equating vulnerability with superficiality
with a time in my life
that I would rather forget
Innocence lost
Vulnerability there
and then covered
again

My horoscope says I haven't felt this level of intensity
for seven years
Why would I want that vulnerability again?
If I'm equating it with superficiality,
with the fear
of being rejected
again?

Seven years ago I was that long-haired
Girl soft naive fun laughs a lot
Pretended to be something she wasn't
Size zero was baggy on her, she ripped her jeans
Showed her black bra to the guys in the room
For attention
Cried to her best friend for solace
Begged her boyfriend to love her and see her blue eyes
Innocent
Taking his hand out to play in the gutters
barefoot
during a thunderstorm
Virgin
Trying to feel the wetness under the covers
when his tongue inserted in and out of her mouth
inside my old room with light purple walls
Take
my clothes off and his hands under my shirt, finally,
second base
put make-up on him and put him in a skirt
take a picture of him
Me
glancing at him when he is driving, listening to free falling
i love my mama, i love jesus
i dont hear the lyrics and i want to go
Back
home, to a time when i still had my long hair,
and it was pure and sweet and i used my
skinniness
my whiteness
my innocence
to get what i fucking wanted

And then, and then the purity is gone
shifted
gone
He leaves for a different country
He comes back
changed
They call me Harriet Tubman
because I gain 20 pounds
No more
Try to use my games, flirt and roll around and wrestle
with him
or him
No more
Send me a hand-written letter in the mail
"We will kill your family behind the barn."
No more
They just did it because they were drunk
No more
What was lost? You can never get your innocence back.
You can never get your innocence back, Mel.

Let it go
Can I be free from it?
Good bye innocent dreams
little girl's hopes and fears and naivete
Good bye purity and first chances and first kisses
and firsts
When I say good bye, to you,
for the last time
when I wave good bye, to me,
for the last time
then
only then
then
delicious ambiguity
will become passion's want
and I will open my arms
to you
again.

3:06pm: And then.

5:54pm: Eyes
The real discovery consists not in finding new lands, but in seeing with new eyes.

Marcel Proust

A middle-aged woman with permed blonde hair,
fuzzy, riding her bike toward me on Constitution Trail, swwwwaying toward me
I'm riding my bike from the opposite direction,
faster, ready to cross the street, looking both ways,
As I pass the woman with permed blonde hair,
fuzzy, riding her bike next to me on Costitution Trail,
I notice
I look down
at her left hand
gripping the handle bar
there is a cigarette burning
in her left hand
gripping the handle bar

I walk around Wal-Mart with my cart full,
almost done with my grocery shopping for the day,
approaching the dairy section,
looking at the eggs.
Why are the eggs in the dairy section? Are eggs dairy?
Which brand should I buy?
Cage-free?
White or brown?
Vegetarian? What the hell are vegetarian eggs?
I want to be friendly, friendly to the chickens
I want the chicken to survive, and not die because of me buying stupid
white
eggs
But wait.
This is Wal-Mart--
I place where child labor and discrimination toward womyn
is rampant
Buying organic food at Wal-Mart?
Being environmentally conscious at Wal-Mart?

"We believe...that homosexuality is a dysfunction of the family..." a pro-family advocate person states on CNN.
I sit on a black leather couch where I am housesitting
for the weekend
and watch this old man
say this on TV
in a home with pictures all over the walls-
mom squishing her nose as daughter gives her a kiss
two women, one child, one dog with camping gear
a home with favorite band posters on the walls
martin luther king jr. pictures on the walls
framed, loving vows
on the walls
a home with a new kitten with fresh blue eyes
rolling around on the hardwood floors
2 women live here
2 women share a home here
2 women with pictures on the walls
2 women in love

I am a wanna-be vegetarian
almost
who occassionally
will eat fish
and chicken.

Intellectualism is becoming a downward spiral
of elitist ramblings, with no action
I am getting a Master's in English degree in May.

My old friend says that one his English professors
teaches him that style is equally as important as content
in writing
that
the way in which something
a text
is presented
where the words are on the page
the dimensions of the page
the font of the letters
the placement of the punctuation
is equally as important as the words
as the language

the way in which something
a text
a person
a sign
a box of eggs
a man on CNN
a house full of pictures
a location
is presented
or interpreted
and the connection between them
the irony itself
is
more of a reality
more of the reality
the most genuine intentions even
are ultimately ironic, hypocritical, counterproductive,
or even
destructive,
although they seem
or are seen as,
anything but.

10:56pm: The infamous list(s)
/10 bands/soundtracks/CD's you like...\
1. Coldplay
2. Smashing Pumpkins
3. Magnolia Soundtrack (Aimee Mann)
4. Bush
5. Radiohead
6. Lost Highway Soundtrack
7. Linkin Park
8. The Hours Soundtrack
9. Best of Trance 2003 Volume 3
10. The Cranberries

/09 things that annoy you...\
1. Ignorant People
2. Being uptight
3. Conservatives
4. People that have rats for pets
5. Corporate Bookstores
6. When frying pans aren't non-stick
7. Constructed Masculinity
8. Fakiness
9. Privilege, especially my own

/08 things you like to wear...\
1. Shirts that show cleavage
2. Black
3. Bras from Lane Bryant that actually FIT
4. Glasses, sometimes
5. Rings, but not the diamond kind
6. Bobby pins, always
7. Scarves on/around my head
8. Bracelet trinket thingys. Wrists are sexy.

/07 things you're looking forward to...\
1. Graduating. Again.
2. Writing my first book of creative nonfiction.
3. Having sex. If ever.
4. Reuniting with my one true thing.
5. Buying a house with lots of land.
6. Getting a full-time job that doesn't involve serving coffee.
7. Doing at least half of my list-of-things-to-do-before-I-die.

/06 things you say everyday...\
1. Fuck.
2. Fuck this.
3. Fuck that.
4. Let's fuck. OK, no I don't.
5. Some sort of open-ended, ambiguous question that no one understands, including myself.
6. Let's go out to eat.

/05 things you do everyday...\
1. Hold, kiss, and hug....my cat.
2. Watch Dawson's Creek. I know, it's bad.
3. Talk, and talk, and talk.
4. Poop a lot. At least 3-4 times.
5. Make someone laugh.

/04 people you want to spend more time with...\
1. Myself.
2. My best friend.
3. My sister.
4. Other: to be announced.

/03 movies you could watch over and over again...\
1. Swiss Family Robinson.
2. Aimee and Jaguar.
3. Dawson's Creek. It's not a movie, but oh well.

/02 of your favorite songs at the moment...\
1. Breaking the Habit by Linkin Park
2. My Immortal by Evanescence

/01 thing you would wish for...\
1. To leave possibility world everyone once and awhile.

12:11am: I love tuna.
My writing burst has officially ended. Back to life as usual--clogged ears, tuna sandwiches, returned books, and graduate assistant training.

I might get a tattoo tomorrow, or at least fill in the one I already had, if that counts.

Is it possible to love and hate anticipation at the same time?