They say Persephone was kidnapped. But the old stories always pretend that women are helpless (against villains, against their own naïveté). So I wonder if it didn't happen differently.
Edith Hamilton writes in Mythology that the gods of Olympus were "untouched by lasting grief." So when Persephone first saw him wandering alone, like herself, among the fields of narcissus, when she saw the despair of mortal souls darkly glowing in his eyes, it must have been a paradigm shift for her.
Watching from a distance as the crust of earth arched back to admit him again, she must have felt the shiver in the air. Her mind must have flooded with all the things she had only just begun to know. And poor Hades, as he turned to go, must have dropped the small plucked flower he had been twirling in his fingers. I wonder if he didn't kidnap her. I wonder if he only got to that dark doorway and paused.
She must have run. She must have charged after him, more Faustus than goddess, making her deal with the devil.
Then when the earth closed up behind them, and they stood confused and alone in the darkness, he would have asked, "Who are you?" He would have asked, "Why did you come?" She might have said, "I couldn't let you go alone," or she might have said, "I want to know." She might have only shrugged.
The adjustment wouldn't have been hard for her because she was the right type, the type to want to know and to not let anyone go alone. She would have found herself at ease conversing with lost souls. She would have enjoyed the strange happiness they built for themselves, just listening to one another tell their sad stories and never saying they'd heard it before.
In time, of course, the godly ordinance came that Persephone must return to the earth for half the year. They say Hades tricked her into eating the pomegranate that would engender the darkness inside her. But the earth had become a pleasant inside joke between them, so I think it more likely that she snatched the pomegranate from his hand, knowing all along, just saying, "One for the road."
Of course she would have felt death blooming in her blood. Still, I think, she shot him a sly look as she burst the seeds between her teeth.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Lost
"Life is short!" They say it joyfully, a cheer for experimentation. Or they say it wistfully, with the breathy confidence of conventional wisdom.
They never say it with the terror of gaping paradox.
They never say, "Life is short! But I have waited so long for this day to be over." They never say, "How can life be so short when I have spent so many nights waiting so long for sleep?" They never say, "It seems that life is short, but the more you contemplate eternity, the slower it turns." They never say, "I am unconvinced."
But I am unconvinced. Because I have waited a long time for this day to be over. And because I have contemplated a million things today and I remember almost none of them. Maybe my life is not short but shortened, by the thousands of days blacked out, by the millions of long deliberations and flashes of insight I thought were shaping who I am, but that now may as well have never happened.
Maybe it's the lightspeed of our synapses that makes our life feel so long, the way our thoughts hurtle backwards into untraceable darkness, faster than we can turn to watch them go.
Humanity is 500,000 years old. But what is it that our human history has left us, if each of us loses 90% of everything she ever comprised, every minute? Five thousand years of written history is just the bits of cloth and wood and dust that remained after all the people blew away.
It makes me angry, it's so overwhelmingly frightening, that though I could read everything, all the wisdom of the ages, I can still only be 25. And how sad for you, to be only 50! And how very, very sad, at 80 years old, to have gotten no older by then. And to have started over every minute, your whole life, with only a fraction of everything you held moments ago.
I guess, then, it isn't such a mystery, these frequent moments of panic, and the way I rush to the bathroom mirror to lock eyes with my own face.
They never say it with the terror of gaping paradox.
They never say, "Life is short! But I have waited so long for this day to be over." They never say, "How can life be so short when I have spent so many nights waiting so long for sleep?" They never say, "It seems that life is short, but the more you contemplate eternity, the slower it turns." They never say, "I am unconvinced."
But I am unconvinced. Because I have waited a long time for this day to be over. And because I have contemplated a million things today and I remember almost none of them. Maybe my life is not short but shortened, by the thousands of days blacked out, by the millions of long deliberations and flashes of insight I thought were shaping who I am, but that now may as well have never happened.
Maybe it's the lightspeed of our synapses that makes our life feel so long, the way our thoughts hurtle backwards into untraceable darkness, faster than we can turn to watch them go.
Humanity is 500,000 years old. But what is it that our human history has left us, if each of us loses 90% of everything she ever comprised, every minute? Five thousand years of written history is just the bits of cloth and wood and dust that remained after all the people blew away.
It makes me angry, it's so overwhelmingly frightening, that though I could read everything, all the wisdom of the ages, I can still only be 25. And how sad for you, to be only 50! And how very, very sad, at 80 years old, to have gotten no older by then. And to have started over every minute, your whole life, with only a fraction of everything you held moments ago.
I guess, then, it isn't such a mystery, these frequent moments of panic, and the way I rush to the bathroom mirror to lock eyes with my own face.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wherein I write my husband's love poem to myself.
My husband posted a very romantic message for me on Facebook today, in honor of our third wedding anniversary, and after three years, my response to his romantic gestures is the same as it has always been: Who, me? For real?
I would have expected him to say something more like this:
To my wife on our third anniversary
Beloved, for three years you have sat on the couch
I would have expected him to say something more like this:
To my wife on our third anniversary
Beloved, for three years you have sat on the couch
and eaten Cheez-Its. You have told one thousand
"Your Mom" jokes and fallen asleep during all
my favorite movies. Lovingly you've asked me to take
the dog out when it is too late, or too cold, or raining.
You maintain the youthful innocence you held
when we were first married, refusing to admit
the sobering reality that you would not end up
so mad if you only put your shoes in a place
where you could still find them two days later.
Imagine my puzzlement, having heard you use
the word "mofo," and having seen the tv turned to
"Toddlers and Tiaras," to see you the next minute
pulling Shakespeare's hardback face off the shelf,
rolling your eyes and calling my interests "banal."
Every day you scatter absurdity around our house
like love notes, or your socks. And I know already
how delighted you will be by my writing this metaphor,
because I have figured out much more than you realize:
I know that to you, a love note is just like a sock.
I know that for you, there is no truth except hyperbole
and no life except absurdity, and it's only you who wishes
you could give me something normal. So as long as
you keep asking "why do you love me?" I remain
and no life except absurdity, and it's only you who wishes
you could give me something normal. So as long as
you keep asking "why do you love me?" I remain
content to have no answers that suit you.
My dearest husband, thank you for loving me, and for loving me in such a perfect way. In honor of our anniversary, just for today, I won't ask you why.
You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I love you, too.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
The way it is
My sadness walks around with me, mostly bearing up well, mostly bearing up bravely.
She gets up with me in the morning, washes her hair just like I do, brushes her teeth just like I do, and follows me out the door. But while I take in the blue September, it's still January for her. For her it has been January for four thousand days, maybe more.
Mostly she doesn't bother anyone. Mostly she doesn't bother me. She's as silent as the unbelief she was born from. I don't really notice what she does all day, while I write a peppy subject line, browse photos, market a trip to Argentina. I suppose she sits at the window and daydreams until it's time to follow me home again. She doesn't mind sitting out while I chat with my friends. Sometimes I think she's humming melodies in her mind.
Mostly she keeps up, even though the air is colder and heavier in her eternal January, even though she is so much smaller than me. But sometimes she gets tired. Sometimes I feel her arm slip around my waist and she leans on me. I have to slow down.
It might make me angry at first. I might try to ignore her and keep up the pace, bitterly willing her to get it together again. She doesn't, of course, she trips, throws both her arms around my waist, and I drag her until her little cry chokes my heart. I remember how small she is.
Sometimes I have to stop and let her lay her head on my shoulder.
Wouldn't you sing yourself a lullaby if you had the chance? I'm slowing down for a while. I'm stopping for just a little while. Because a little patience and a little empathy is the least I can give to a girl who so desperately needs my love. And I hope, if you need to, you'll sit down beside us, holding your own hand.
She gets up with me in the morning, washes her hair just like I do, brushes her teeth just like I do, and follows me out the door. But while I take in the blue September, it's still January for her. For her it has been January for four thousand days, maybe more.
Mostly she doesn't bother anyone. Mostly she doesn't bother me. She's as silent as the unbelief she was born from. I don't really notice what she does all day, while I write a peppy subject line, browse photos, market a trip to Argentina. I suppose she sits at the window and daydreams until it's time to follow me home again. She doesn't mind sitting out while I chat with my friends. Sometimes I think she's humming melodies in her mind.
Mostly she keeps up, even though the air is colder and heavier in her eternal January, even though she is so much smaller than me. But sometimes she gets tired. Sometimes I feel her arm slip around my waist and she leans on me. I have to slow down.
It might make me angry at first. I might try to ignore her and keep up the pace, bitterly willing her to get it together again. She doesn't, of course, she trips, throws both her arms around my waist, and I drag her until her little cry chokes my heart. I remember how small she is.
Sometimes I have to stop and let her lay her head on my shoulder.
Wouldn't you sing yourself a lullaby if you had the chance? I'm slowing down for a while. I'm stopping for just a little while. Because a little patience and a little empathy is the least I can give to a girl who so desperately needs my love. And I hope, if you need to, you'll sit down beside us, holding your own hand.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Where ignorant armies clash
Content note: misogyny, violent misogyny, and state-sponsored, violent misogyny. This is rough, y'all.
I feel my body vanishing.
The following exchange took place between Republican Senate candidate Tom Smith and Associated Press reporter Mark Scolforo:
Smith is saying that for a father, the devastation of discovering that your daughter has chosen to participate in premarital sex and has become pregnant is similar to the devastation of discovering that your daughter has been intimidated, overpowered, subdued, assaulted, tortured, and traumatized (either by force or coercion) and that now she has to make a critical decision about the pregnancy that has resulted, all the while dealing with the stigmas and pressures of a culture that chooses to erase her pain. Similarly to how Smith just erased her pain himself.
Smith is also saying that because his daughter chose to carry to term the pregnancy she conceived when she happily and freely engaged in consensual sex with a partner of her choice, society should expect a woman who was intimidated, overpowered, subdued, assaulted, tortured and traumatized (either by force or coercion) to carry to term the pregnancy she conceived by the man who intimidated, overpowered, subdued, assaulted, tortured and traumatized her (either by force or coercion).
It's no longer one or two right-wing extremists saying this. The whole party recently approved a new party platform that would deny the choice to have an abortion from all rape victims, as well as all other women, including women whose lives are endangered by pregnancy. (Note that "pregnant rape victims" and "women whose lives are endangered by pregnancy" can and do include girls 10 years old or younger.)
Vice presidential candidate Paul Ryan, as you've probably heard, co-sponsored with Todd Akin the legislation that introduced the concept of "forcible rape." The bill proposed that victims of rape would not be granted abortions unless they were victims of "forcible rape." This, of course, puts the burden on the woman/girl to prove that she isn't just a lying slut trying to escape responsibility. And further, the message it really conveys is that any woman/girl who wants an abortion must be able to prove that she is as innocent herself as her innocent blastocyst, and therefore equal to the blastocyst in value.
Then is it any wonder that I feel my body vanishing?
Because when a Republican state legislator here in my home state says that a woman should be denied the choice to terminate a pregnancy even when the fetus is known to be dead, citing that animals have done it on his farm, that woman is me, that is my body.
When legislators of my national government say that some ideologue in an office somewhere should be free to decide that a woman should die rather than receive a life-saving abortion, that woman is me, that is my body.
When women in my country are charged with murder because of their miscarriages, that is me, that is my body.
When Republicans in Virginia try to pass laws that a woman should be vaginally penetrated for no medical reason, but only because the State wants to shame her out of her decision, that is me, that is my body.
When acts of terrorism are committed against women's health professionals, that is me, that is my body.
When a communications director for a Republican representative goes on Facebook and says, "Let's hurl some acid at those female democratic Senators," that female is me, that is my body.
When the most pro-life state in the nation also has the highest rate of sexual assault against teenage girls at 17.3% (all evidence of a culture hostile to female autonomy and consent), that girl is me, that is my body.
When a woman nearly dies because the ER doctor on call refuses to abort a non-viable fetus, that woman is me, that is my body.
When pro-lifers propose "personhood" amendments giving full human rights to zygotes and making it murder to terminate ectopic pregnancies that result in maternal death, that is my body.
When a Republican state legislator in Kansas says that women should "plan ahead" for their eventual rape by purchasing separate abortion coverage plans, that woman is me, that is my body.
When the Arizona Senate passes a bill to allow doctors to withhold information from a pregnant woman about fetal abnormalities or genetic disorders, that woman is me, that is my body.
When a regular contributor to Fox News says that women who report sexual assault in the military "want to be warriors and victims at the same time" and asks "what did they expect?" that is me, that is my body.
When all this goes on, and then Republicans say that the war on women is "fiction," it's not fiction to my body.
I don't believe that an embryo, or a blastocyst, or a zygote has more value than I do. I don't believe that the rights of an embryo, or a blastocyst, or a zygote trump my rights. If you do believe those things, get your beliefs off of my body.
If you're not comfortable acknowledging just how heinous any kind of rape truly is, or what an omnipresent terror it is to all women every day, or if you think it can be compared in any way to a consensual act, or if you are intent on legislating the behavior of rape victims who are trying to reclaim their lives while the judicial system remains so inept at prosecuting rapists that 54% of rapes continue to go unreported, keep your illusions the hell away from my body.
I never asked for all this violence, but it is being waged across the landscape of my body.
Does that sound dramatic? It is dramatic. This misogyny is extreme and terrorizing. Surely this revelation cannot be shocking to you: that I can never be at peace while my body remains the darkling plain.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
-from "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold
I feel my body vanishing.
The following exchange took place between Republican Senate candidate Tom Smith and Associated Press reporter Mark Scolforo:
SCOLFORO: Well, how would you tell a daughter or a granddaughter who, God forbid, would be the victim of a rape, to keep the child against her own will? Is that something that you would–do you have a way to explain that?
SMITH: I lived something similar to that with my own family. She chose life, and I commend her for that. She knew my views. But, fortunately for me, I didn’t have to… She chose they way I thought. Now don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t rape.
SCOLFORO: Similar how?
SMITH: Uh, having a baby out of wedlock. You know.
SCOLFORO: That’s similar to rape?
SMITH: No, no, no, but… Put yourself in a father’s position, yes. I mean, it is similar. This was a–But, come back to the original–I’m pro-life, period.The whole conversation was recorded and you can hear it here.
Smith is saying that for a father, the devastation of discovering that your daughter has chosen to participate in premarital sex and has become pregnant is similar to the devastation of discovering that your daughter has been intimidated, overpowered, subdued, assaulted, tortured, and traumatized (either by force or coercion) and that now she has to make a critical decision about the pregnancy that has resulted, all the while dealing with the stigmas and pressures of a culture that chooses to erase her pain. Similarly to how Smith just erased her pain himself.
Smith is also saying that because his daughter chose to carry to term the pregnancy she conceived when she happily and freely engaged in consensual sex with a partner of her choice, society should expect a woman who was intimidated, overpowered, subdued, assaulted, tortured and traumatized (either by force or coercion) to carry to term the pregnancy she conceived by the man who intimidated, overpowered, subdued, assaulted, tortured and traumatized her (either by force or coercion).
It's no longer one or two right-wing extremists saying this. The whole party recently approved a new party platform that would deny the choice to have an abortion from all rape victims, as well as all other women, including women whose lives are endangered by pregnancy. (Note that "pregnant rape victims" and "women whose lives are endangered by pregnancy" can and do include girls 10 years old or younger.)
Vice presidential candidate Paul Ryan, as you've probably heard, co-sponsored with Todd Akin the legislation that introduced the concept of "forcible rape." The bill proposed that victims of rape would not be granted abortions unless they were victims of "forcible rape." This, of course, puts the burden on the woman/girl to prove that she isn't just a lying slut trying to escape responsibility. And further, the message it really conveys is that any woman/girl who wants an abortion must be able to prove that she is as innocent herself as her innocent blastocyst, and therefore equal to the blastocyst in value.
Then is it any wonder that I feel my body vanishing?
Because when a Republican state legislator here in my home state says that a woman should be denied the choice to terminate a pregnancy even when the fetus is known to be dead, citing that animals have done it on his farm, that woman is me, that is my body.
When legislators of my national government say that some ideologue in an office somewhere should be free to decide that a woman should die rather than receive a life-saving abortion, that woman is me, that is my body.
When women in my country are charged with murder because of their miscarriages, that is me, that is my body.
When Republicans in Virginia try to pass laws that a woman should be vaginally penetrated for no medical reason, but only because the State wants to shame her out of her decision, that is me, that is my body.
When acts of terrorism are committed against women's health professionals, that is me, that is my body.
When a communications director for a Republican representative goes on Facebook and says, "Let's hurl some acid at those female democratic Senators," that female is me, that is my body.
When the most pro-life state in the nation also has the highest rate of sexual assault against teenage girls at 17.3% (all evidence of a culture hostile to female autonomy and consent), that girl is me, that is my body.
When a woman nearly dies because the ER doctor on call refuses to abort a non-viable fetus, that woman is me, that is my body.
When pro-lifers propose "personhood" amendments giving full human rights to zygotes and making it murder to terminate ectopic pregnancies that result in maternal death, that is my body.
When a Republican state legislator in Kansas says that women should "plan ahead" for their eventual rape by purchasing separate abortion coverage plans, that woman is me, that is my body.
When the Arizona Senate passes a bill to allow doctors to withhold information from a pregnant woman about fetal abnormalities or genetic disorders, that woman is me, that is my body.
When a regular contributor to Fox News says that women who report sexual assault in the military "want to be warriors and victims at the same time" and asks "what did they expect?" that is me, that is my body.
When all this goes on, and then Republicans say that the war on women is "fiction," it's not fiction to my body.
I don't believe that an embryo, or a blastocyst, or a zygote has more value than I do. I don't believe that the rights of an embryo, or a blastocyst, or a zygote trump my rights. If you do believe those things, get your beliefs off of my body.
If you're not comfortable acknowledging just how heinous any kind of rape truly is, or what an omnipresent terror it is to all women every day, or if you think it can be compared in any way to a consensual act, or if you are intent on legislating the behavior of rape victims who are trying to reclaim their lives while the judicial system remains so inept at prosecuting rapists that 54% of rapes continue to go unreported, keep your illusions the hell away from my body.
I never asked for all this violence, but it is being waged across the landscape of my body.
Does that sound dramatic? It is dramatic. This misogyny is extreme and terrorizing. Surely this revelation cannot be shocking to you: that I can never be at peace while my body remains the darkling plain.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
-from "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Product Review
She's basically pretty. She sort of looks like me. Which is good because
a doll ought to be relatable. She can sit and stand without falling
over. It'd be nice if her hair were longer, since it's long enough for a
ponytail but not long enough to braid.
She speaks a few phrases, which is satisfactory, but her voice is too squeaky to be appealing, so I mostly don't use that function.
I'll just mention that a doll ought to be able to wear a hat or glasses if the occasion calls for it, but these things fall right off her.
Of course, the main trouble is she just doesn't do very well in her playtime roles. She tolerates her wicked stepsisters well enough, which is fine when we play Cinderella, but when we play Runaway, the plot just falls apart because she can't ride a horse. She dances okay, but she can't sigh convincingly, so the romances never work. I can tell the prince is frustrated by the lack of chemistry in their performance.
I've tried playing Schoolteacher with her, but she has no compassion for her students. Panda is failing and will have to be held back a year if this continues. I thought a more exciting plot might please her, so I tried Joan of Arc. But when we got to the end, I'd swear she was relieved to be burned at the stake.
She just doesn't want to be the ingenue in my stories, which I don't understand. I let her play the villain for a while, but she was terrible at that as well. She refuses to abuse the other toys, even for the sake of thematic climax. And all this is extremely aggravating for me, because I spent entirely too much of my allowance on this doll to end up having to drop her down to a bit part.
I'm not a difficult girl. There is only one quality I require in a doll, and that is flexibility. She needs to have a steady hand when she operates on Snuggles. She needs to faint gracefully when she's kidnapped by the Evil Witch. She needs to pull the other doll's hair if I tell her to.
And this should go without saying: if she can't be punctual for teatime, what good is she? Plus it's entirely too hard to get her clothes off. If you tug the back of the dress, the snaps just break. I've got half a mind to leave her naked.
She has no appreciation for the opportunities she's been given. If she would put forth a little effort, she would see that I'm a very loving person.
But when I look into her little eyes, I can almost hear her saying, "For the love of God, put me back on the shelf. I'd rather sit alone with my empty, plastic head than be loved by you."
She speaks a few phrases, which is satisfactory, but her voice is too squeaky to be appealing, so I mostly don't use that function.
I'll just mention that a doll ought to be able to wear a hat or glasses if the occasion calls for it, but these things fall right off her.
Of course, the main trouble is she just doesn't do very well in her playtime roles. She tolerates her wicked stepsisters well enough, which is fine when we play Cinderella, but when we play Runaway, the plot just falls apart because she can't ride a horse. She dances okay, but she can't sigh convincingly, so the romances never work. I can tell the prince is frustrated by the lack of chemistry in their performance.
I've tried playing Schoolteacher with her, but she has no compassion for her students. Panda is failing and will have to be held back a year if this continues. I thought a more exciting plot might please her, so I tried Joan of Arc. But when we got to the end, I'd swear she was relieved to be burned at the stake.
She just doesn't want to be the ingenue in my stories, which I don't understand. I let her play the villain for a while, but she was terrible at that as well. She refuses to abuse the other toys, even for the sake of thematic climax. And all this is extremely aggravating for me, because I spent entirely too much of my allowance on this doll to end up having to drop her down to a bit part.
I'm not a difficult girl. There is only one quality I require in a doll, and that is flexibility. She needs to have a steady hand when she operates on Snuggles. She needs to faint gracefully when she's kidnapped by the Evil Witch. She needs to pull the other doll's hair if I tell her to.
And this should go without saying: if she can't be punctual for teatime, what good is she? Plus it's entirely too hard to get her clothes off. If you tug the back of the dress, the snaps just break. I've got half a mind to leave her naked.
She has no appreciation for the opportunities she's been given. If she would put forth a little effort, she would see that I'm a very loving person.
But when I look into her little eyes, I can almost hear her saying, "For the love of God, put me back on the shelf. I'd rather sit alone with my empty, plastic head than be loved by you."
Monday, August 13, 2012
Migraine
Only a sliver of light slices into the bedroom from the hall, but I have shielded myself against even that, with the bedsheets pulled over my face. Underneath them the air is hot and still and noiseless.
Only the faintest sounds reach me. They are hardly more than the sound of my own blood in my ears. Behind my dark eyelids I am underwater.
My husband's laughter bubbles up, breaks my surface, clear but distant. Then his voice, joyful and adoring, entreating the little black dog we both love to find a toy he is hiding for her. I hear her playful whines and the jingle of her collar. In my mind I see her prancing and my husband's arms reaching for her.
I don't wish, not even for a second, to stand up, walk into the other room, smile, speak or touch them in that bright, bright world that is no longer my world. I lie still and love them - skills, I realize, I will one day be grateful to have practiced.
Only the faintest sounds reach me. They are hardly more than the sound of my own blood in my ears. Behind my dark eyelids I am underwater.
My husband's laughter bubbles up, breaks my surface, clear but distant. Then his voice, joyful and adoring, entreating the little black dog we both love to find a toy he is hiding for her. I hear her playful whines and the jingle of her collar. In my mind I see her prancing and my husband's arms reaching for her.
I don't wish, not even for a second, to stand up, walk into the other room, smile, speak or touch them in that bright, bright world that is no longer my world. I lie still and love them - skills, I realize, I will one day be grateful to have practiced.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)