Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Blank Dictionary


I collect words and phrases the way some of my friends collect bottle caps—sporadically, slipping them into my pockets when I remember and throwing them out when I don't. Sometimes, the expression itself eludes me, but the meaning remains, a loose definition like a  taste more remembered than actually tasted. English words, French words, Latin and Greek roots, words from books that are not in any dictionary—I hold onto them and use them inside my own head to put things in order, to remind myself why I love the things I love and hate the things I hate.

petrichor – the smell of dust after it rains

sonder – the realization that everyone is living a life as full an unique as your own, and that you appear to them as they to you

hypnagogic – relating to the state of being that is between awake and asleep

I place these words in small corners of my memory, to be called up and used in bits and pieces, when they are just right for something. I love the feeling of a word slotting perfectly into place, describing the intricacies of a situation, like the whorls of a fingerprint pressed lightly in ink and onto paper.

But there is no word I have ever read for you.

There is no word, no poetic turn of phrase, to tell me that another soul in world understands how it feels to be so inexplicably and inextricably linked across miles of distance and months of time. How it is to knot our thoughts together and untangle them over and over, while trying to pretend that we are not pulling pieces of each other away every time we have ever embraced and gone our separate ways. No book I have ever read speaks of soul-mates the way we are, eternally denying the very existence of the bond that pulls us together over pixelated airwaves and unseen thought-tides.

I think of you, and you talk to me, without fail. I never even have to move—you are already there, speaking.

Giving your heart away to someone who has done so much more to deserve it.

And there is nothing I can do to keep you but try and find that word, those letters typeset on a page, hidden somewhere on a shelf that I will never have the pleasure to see. I hope that if I can find the right shapes in black ink that I can unlock this riddle from the inside and tear away the fences and the miles, and pull you to me, like a kite on a string. Like the moon to the sea. Like the way you used to pull me to your chest in the middle of the night.

That word is a phantom, a trick of the light, a whisper half-heard. It will never be found, and one night, mornings and evenings and full moons from now, I will realize that I have spent my days searching for a ghost, and you will be playing that song that blossoms in your lungs to someone else. I will have lost.

I am still searching for that perfect word. I will wrap it up in sheet music and give it to you, to bite between your teeth on your wedding day.




I have already lost.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Regarding anonymity and respect.

So, a few nights ago, I wrote this post. Like most of my posts on this blog, it is a short snippet of prose about my life. Also like most of my posts, it revolves around sex, romance, and relationships.
This morning, I woke up to an anonymous comment that said this:
"You are cordially invited to shut your dirty whore mouth". You really didn't try to conceal his identity very hard sweetie. Also, don't publish shit like this on facebook where it can hurt people.

Signed,
that "most beautiful" Man's Honey
It took me two hours and a 500-calorie workout to be calm enough to reply. I ended up saying this:
So, I'm not sure if this comment comes from misdirected anger or a misunderstanding of what I intended in this post, but there are several things I'd like to address.

1. The last time I slept with the Fool was something like December 10th of last year. At that time, both of us were single.

2. I have no intention of trying to sleep with him again.

3. Any romantic inclination I may have towards him is minimal. He is a friend, and while I'm drawn to him as a person, I understand that A) he has no interest in me and B) is otherwise involved with other people (or person, as you've just informed me.)

4. The point of this blog post was that I'm trying to sleep with the girl in the rainbow necklace. Not him.

Obviously, you know me somewhat personally, or you wouldn't be able to see my Facebook posts. In this case, I invite you to message me so we can discuss this further if you so desire. But please understand that I mean no offence or imposition on you. In fact, I have no idea who you are; I wasn't aware he is currently in a relationship.

Also, when upset, it is most often unproductive to begin the explanation as to why you are upset with a (stolen) insult.

Cheers.
I also made the decision to remove anonymous commenting on this blog. You may now only leave comments if you have a Google account or an OpenID (livejournal and dreamwidth count), and all comments will be moderated by me before they are either posted or deleted. I respect your right to comment on my work; I hope people will respect my right to choose which of those comments are suitable to be displayed.

Anyway, while I was calming down and while I was writing my response, it got me thinking about why I was so upset by it. And the answer, to my surprise, was not because I felt guilty whatsoever for writing, posting, or linking the piece in the first place. Instead, I realized that I was upset by the fact that this person didn't have the respect to identify themselves while hurling (admittedly bad) insults at me.

My name is attached to my blog. My Tumblr, my photography site, and my Facebook all link there. It's assigned to my main personal email account and has several photos of me. I will never and have never tried to deny the ownership of anything I've written, despite the fact that several posts have bothered people. (I have only once taken a post down due to conflict, and it was because it was a bad decision to post it in the first place).

If someone has a problem with something I've written, I expect them to confront me, just like the Anon above did. But I expect them to own up to their problem or criticism. Discuss with me why you're upset. Throwing your anger at me like rocks through a window accomplishes nothing.
No, I will not apologize for writing or posting it. No, I will not take it down. No, I will not try and tell you I meant someone or something other than exactly what or whom I meant. But I might apologize for hurting you, or showing you disrespect. I might apologize for making you uncomfortable.

But only if you have the balls to tell me who you are, and the respect not to call me a "dirty whore" in the first sentence of your comment.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Of lip-gloss and one night stands.


The night my little brother ends a five-day stint in the hospital, I find myself in a friend's room with the most beautiful man I've ever met. He is the personification of Bill Weasley, lithe and freckled, with beautiful red-auburn hair in a low ponytail. I met him last year and slept with him twice. For reasons since forgotten, I call him the Fool.

This is maybe the second time I've seen him since he left my bedroom just before Christmas, and I greet him with a hug that is a little too exuberant. He smiles at me, and I take refuge in his energy. He is one of those people whose aura I want to crawl inside of, an eye amidst a hurricane. We banter like old friends, and though I'd like to think I'm a special case, I know I'm not—he's that kind of person, comfortable and safe. At one point, I make a comment about going insane, and he tugs one teal-and-purple curl and says, “Yeah, and you dye your hair to match.”

Later, the girl with the rainbow necklace joins us, and as people begin dissipating and sliding into sleep, we decide to wander away. I say goodbye to the Fool, jumping up and hugging him fiercely. I would give anything to kiss him again, and as I pull away, I swear he reads it in my eyes.

“You little troublemaker,” he says softly, and it feels like somehow he has given me both approval and permission to take the flirtation and the energy, the banter and the smirks, and use them. I know I'm probably reading too much into things, but his fictional approval touches something in me, and I walk out with the girl with the rainbow necklace, smiling.

Half an hour later, I find myself on the grass of the soccer field, the girl wrapped around me. We speak of stars and childhood friends, and I find myself kissing purple gloss from her lips. An hour later we are tangled in her sheets, and when we are interrupted by a knock on her door, I leave with a sigh.

Walking across the grass to my own room, I wonder if I will ever have the capacity to love anyone again, or if my heart will always be haunted by the ghosts of old soul-mates and one night stands and people I never had the courage to fuck.