Dommunism Saves++

Beliefs and behaviors unbecoming of a broad.
 

Fathermotherless.

If I don't write this, I'll explode. Nobody wants to see that. Or perhaps somebody does. I cannot speak on behalf of others, especially others who may want to see me explode as I haven't any idea who'd like to see me explode and why said person or people would like to see me explode.  Perhaps these people exist; perhaps they don't.  What I do know is self-inflicted spontaneous combustion has never been a desirable aim of mine; it's unnecessarily messy and mostly preventable.  Accordingly, in an effort to fend off such an event, I must write this now.  This diatribe is already off to a particularly wordy start and I suspect this will only worsen with each successive tap of my keyboard.  I guess this is okay because, really, this isn't for you as much as it's for me and my pursuit of staying reasonably intact. Staying intact beats the other alternative which is not staying intact which, as I stated before, requires much clean up and which, similarly stated, is mostly preventable.  Nobody wants to clean up my mess. Or perhaps somebody does. But again, I cannot speak on behalf of others.

So what is it that I must write, you ask? Or perhaps you aren't asking and perhaps this question is purely rhetorical, in which case I'm wasting time and type inquiring whether you, or anybody else for that matter, are asking questions of me.  I could beat around the bush here. Arguably, the merry-go-roundabouts that comprise this diatribe are proof of my being guilty of such.  Or not.  But either way, my aim, as stated before, isn't beating around the bush as much as it is preventing a mostly preventable mess that will likely occur and will probably be cleaned up by some unaffected party if I don't write this now. As such, I am writing this now. 

And what better time than now as I am intact and therefore fully equipped with the capacity to write as I do now? For it is the maintenance of this capacity that I write and will continue to write; of course, as important as the preservation of this capacity is, this consideration is undoubtedly trumped by my desire to not create preventable messes which may or may not occur to the benefit or detriment of others with whom I may or not have an acquaintance, which is why I write as I do now.

Imagine the mess that would ensue!  How vividly these images appear in my mind's eye - mangled appendages strewn about with irresponsible disregard for the faint-hearted;  exposed entrails and other centerpieces for the innermost goings-on on which the body depends. Nobody of whom I am aware wants to see this.  But perhaps this only applies to those of whom I am aware.  At any rate, how unconscionable it would be if I were not to stave off such a gruesome inevitably occurring, but highly preventable event by not writing this diatribe posthaste as I do now.  So I write. Reasonably intact. For now.

Posted August 17, 2011
 

Wax On, Wax Off

I was doomed from the start when my mother, in all of her effortless femininity, revealed to me the family heirloom I had unwittingly acquired at birth from my father's side of the family.

 In an affectionate tone that couldn't help but be unintentionally piercing, she referred to the ruthlessly curly tufts of hair above my almond-shaped eyes as "your father's eyebrows". Processing this as an awkward 12-year-old (a redundant characterization, I know) automatically brought about not-so feminine associations, which were all the more exacerbated by the fluttering images conjured in my mind's eye – dad's characteristic furrowed brow and the unruly bristle that emphasized its masculinity, dad's indiscriminate way of emptying the contents of his always stuffy nose into any slither of fabric that would accept it, dad's often oil-stained finger nails, dad's spitting, cursing and scratching, dad's devotion to spaghetti westerns.  Dad was a bona fide Burt Reynolds of men and I, his only daughter of four children, bore obvious traces to his ultra manly lineage. I resolved that a genetic machinist hopped up on schadenfreude strung together a sequence of "HAHAHAs" in my DNA.

 Initially, I deferred to indifference being, as I was, a girl raised by wolves (save for my ultra feminine mother whose eyebrows I had not inherited). Preliminary efforts were easy.  By design, I already possessed a strong aversion for girly things, so the only effort required was putting forth no effort. But then something happened – soon after I had decided to not give in to girly, this aversion, by no fault of my own, exposed itself to what would become its destructive foe: an irrational affinity for the opposite sex. 

And as irrational affinities have a way of both undermining and underpinning our noble efforts, this aversion slowly but surely chipped away at itself. And as the aversion crept away, my interest in the opposite sex piqued. And as my interest in males grew with cancer-like efficiency, my willingness to contort my understanding of "necessity" and "comfortability" – all for the sake of eventually surpassing first-base makeout sessions with my hand – became more elastic.  And as males have been socialized to covet dainty, hairless things, the obvious choice was that I had no choice.  Indifference, I figured, in the realm of female grooming was tantamount to being a walking advertisment for a lifestyle characterized by sock-clad birkenstocks, figure-killing wool sweaters and dinner parties regularly attended by copious, corpulent cats.  I'd be "That Girl" instead of the "It Girl". 

There was only one thing to do: prune, pluck, wax, tease, cut, pull, trim, tweeze and/or blowtorch these eye socket protectors turned unsuspecting detractors into submission.  This forced habit quickly mutuated into a force of habit as natural and necessary as masturbation or doing the laundry. Years upon years of hair removal had instilled within me an almost instinctual pang of nameless dread that heightened as new growth defiantly pushed its way to the surface of my recently sculpted brows. 

It was not until recently, as I lay supine on an extended leather chair like a corpse on an operating table awaiting expedient hands and rueful appeals for other operations, that I realized it's not natural forces of preservation that pose an affront to my femininity. On the contrary, it is socialization through the infliction of custom and culture; it is the notion that certain practices are required to achieve femininity or some semblance thereof; it is the framing of my needs as a woman through the lens of a man. Though it was my mother who made me acutely aware of these gendered expectations, she didn't create them; she simply prepared and passed along an abridged account of society's ill-conceived feminist manifesto to her only daughter. 
Despite my momentary brush with the ever-elusive a-ha! moment, I had decidedly resolved to do nothing about it. So, when the light-tongued, heavily accented Korean girl returned from the other side of the partition, tools of the trade in hand, and suggested upon a quick inspection of my face that I supplement my eyebrow wax with an upper lip wax to please my non-existent boyfriend, I agreed, ponied up the difference and tipped her five bucks.       

Posted June 14, 2011
 

Snap Into A Slim Jim; Savor A Memory

Macho Man Randy Savage's death conjured memories of the many times my older brother would claim seniority over the television set to routinely and unfailingly tune into Saturday morning wrestling after the cartoon circuit ran its course.  Mouth agape, I would watch watch horrifiedly over his shoulder as glistening, over-muscled men (donning, among other questionable accoutrements, multicolored spandex) put their bodies through athletic anguish to the screams of a faceless, sometimes-sychophantic, other-times-bloodthirsty mob hurling indecipherable cheers and jeers.  When I asked my then 10-year-old brother what could possess a man to do such a thing, he shrugged off the question with the characteristic nonchalance an older brother has toward his younger sister and insisted that I didn't "get it".  I suppose he was right because as far as I was concerned, there was simply nothing to "get". 
 
There appeared to be storylines that weren't entirely seamless but hardly episodic, characters of discernible likeability, catcalls and catchphrases born from unique identities and personalities; but these guys didn't fit into the kid-friendly box of crime-fighting insects or lovable looneys.  To me, these guys were shucking-and-jiving, chronic high-fiving, caricatures of men. To my brother, these guys were at a minimum heroes and at a maximum gods. 
 
At 26, I still maintain the same position I did when I was eight, so it appears my older brother was and probably is still right in his assessment that I don't get it.  Even still, it's interesting that the simultaneous celebration of a stranger's life and mourning of his untimely death could trigger the thought of someone I have known, loved and respected my whole life.  

Posted May 20, 2011
 

Lilac Wine, I Feel Unsteady

Dinner last night was half a store-bought rotisserie chicken and a bottle of cheap swill that had been sitting in the pantry for [Insert Deity] knows how long.  Anyone's guess is as good as mine as to how the swill found itself stowed for indeterminate lengths in the recesses of the well-fed pantry consisting mostly of ready-made foods quarantined in boxes and cans and perishable dried snacks.  But when the swill and I met eyes, I felt an odd commonality with it and I suppose it would have reciprocated the sentiment had it not been an inanimate object? 

Minor hitches nothwithstanding, a kinsmanship of consumption was quickly conceived and grew with biological precision gulp after generous gulp until no wine remained and until the fleshy chicken carcass, left untouched and growing ever tepid with each passing moment of neglect, bawked for acknowledgment.  With the hunger of one who has just consumed an entire bottle of wine in a single sitting absent conventional tools of "dignified" boozing (a glass, for instance), I tore into the carcass with expectant fingers which filled themselves to capacity with skin, flesh and bone, and as I neared capacity, I lost my footing and fell to floor, knocking over my empty companion of consumption, whose wrapper bore a presumably Italian-sounding name, and along with it the half-consumed carcass, which landed upright with its arms crossed in an oddly menacing way so as to say, "You could've at least used a plate, you drunk ass".  

Whether it was the carcass' own volition or the headiness of the wine that made the carcass appear as such is beside the point.  I have read Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" and am all too familiar with the fate of those who dare to question or carry on dialogue with angry birds.  It was with that in mind that I postponed clean-up and called it an early night. 

Posted April 21, 2011
 

Please Mom--Not Facebook!

It's nothing personal, Mom.

The shameless and quite possibly illicit extracurricular activities in which I may or may not engage on a semi-regular basis notwithstanding, there are a slew of practical reasons that preclude me from adding you to my electronic social network. Of course, you'll argue otherwise, citing a veritable smorgasbord of embarrassing life experiences to which you and the universe alone have unfettered access (my shitting infant stage of development, to reference a notable source of trauma).

But this is different.

Now, I'm an adult. Or, at the very least I'm trying to project myself as such [to you]. That considered, to what extent is it beneficial that you know of my whereabouts on a Monday night (probably a bar), my thoughts on religion (we are polar opposites) or my propensity for using the word "fuck" as an adjective (I mean, why fucking not)?

The way I figure, this delicate veil of secrecy protects us both from needless invasion. Do you really want to know whose bathroom floor I slept on last night? Similarly, do you think I'm dying to know what you and Dad are doing (only Satan knows) in your empty, no longer kid-infested home?

Let's do one another a solid and admit that ignorance can sometimes be bliss.

Lovingly,

Your Spawn

Posted December 3, 2010
 

Entertaining Doubt (And Other Vices)

As it turns out, there is a veritable gamut of misdeeds not covered in sacred texts that could land one in hell.  Or so I was kindly apprised a few days ago by a sour-faced stranger who happened upon what she perceived as a misdeed of mine. 
 
I figured it odd that a person with whom I have no former ties, experiences or acquaintances could deem herself a worthy decider of my fate.  How she could so nonchalantly cast me into the fiery pits of some unforgiving cauldron of doom for all eternity, absent any substantive cues about the content of my character, baffled me all the more.  I tend to greet such hospitality with a casual brushoff, but as tickling as it is to me, I'd never suggest that I regard such condemnation only humorously.  Do I find it offensive?  Sure.  Do I think it is a little, if not completely, off base?  Postively.  Do I take it seriously?  Mostly no. But there's a faint, yet itchy yes that is begging to be scratched.
 
I'll start from scratch.
 
Scratch, scratch.
 
Fear of a creator was never "properly" instilled into me.  Dad had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy that he half-heartedly enforced, although it was assumed he associated himself with Christianity notwithstanding his fondness for the word "goddamnit". Mom was a cafeteria-style nondenominational who, save for holidays, sparingly gave her Sundays to church.  Occasionally, to my chagrin, she'd wake me up at some obscene hour, swaddle me in a ridiculously floral ensemble and haul me off to anonymous churches, all of which were redheaded offsprings of Christianity.  
 
Between the ritualistic song and dance lay the recitation of scripture.  Sermons were delivered by men dressed to the nines in generously pressed dark suits, blindingly white collared button-ups and eye-catching ties in vivid yellows, oranges and baby blues.  A master of tonality, the preacher often punctuated his prose with emphatic cues which would conjure no shortage of "hallelujahs", "praise the lords" and the never-failing "amen".  There were impromptu visits from the holy ghost and although it/she/he/they never knocked on my door, on the doors of others (always ADULT others) it/she/he/they would kick and scream until it/she/he/they was acknowledged and thereafter manifested in the strangest ways.  The older the believer, the more extravagent the display.  Well-to-do women were transformed into sirens spewing incomprehensible praise in the form of babble; important-looking men were reduced to over eager, limb-flailing toddlers.  People cried, died and were re-born again in one sweeping gesture.
 
But never was I infected.  And as Mom stood upon, her characteristically skeptical eyebrows at full mast, never did she say a word.  Neither did she say a word after the spectacle was over and after the collection plate had made its way through every aisle and after Christ's fruit juice blood and saltine cracker body were devoured with the same gusto as the word of God. 
 
So what was wrong with me?  Was it wrong that I found something inherently detached, dare I say silly, about this way of worship?  Questions were never asked.  Dialogue was rarely exchanged, and when it was, it had nothing to do with the sermon itself save for the obsequious oozings of church cheerleaders.  How eager they were to swallow, but never digest, the scruples to which they vigorously adhered.  How reluctant they were to test, and thereby strengthen, their faith by calling into question the validity of the opposing view. How quickly they were to banish me to that theoretical misery dimension for an undisclosed amount of eternity without so much the benefit of air conditioning.  
 
And so it follows, church cheerleaders were the moving force that prompted my voluntary removal from most forms of organized worship in my adult life, and for a long while, I questioned my faith in faith. Yet, all along, religion itself never put me off as much as those who practice it.  And not only practice it, but inflict it upon others.  To take a "my way or the highway to hell" approach to matters of faith creates a foundation of fear.  It inspires no hope; it is salvation through groupthink; it pits the natural propensity for individual thought against belief.  The way I figured,  if individuality and belief were mutually exclusive, I'd rather go without belief.   
 
But in that denial lay a flaw.  It wasn't until recently that I realized I had allowed my disassociation to frame my belief system (or lack thereof).  Whereas the zealot's religion was fear, mine was irrepressible disavowal.  Rarely did I consider the principles against which I so adamantly stood.  In this regard, I was no better than the sour-faced stranger I referenced at the start of this rant.  Although I hadn't reciprocated said stranger's sentiments on unpleasant after-life vacation spots, my disregarding her altogether was the passive equivalent.  
 
That said, can I honestly say I now take this woman with the utmost of seriousness?  Well, no (as you can imagine, I don't take kindly to being wished to hell).  Am I more willing to attempt discourse with such a person?  Lukewarm.  Perhaps she's privy to something I'm not.  Or, perhaps she's batshit insane.  Either way, it strengthens us to question and it's questionable why anyone would sell their beliefs short by not entertaining doubt.

Posted September 3, 2010
 

The Case of the Confectionary Quasi Muse

In a neapolitan world, I am suspicious of anyone who would willingly
inflict upon himself the banality of a single flavor. I say this with
intentions both literal and figurative; however, I fear that in the
process of explaining this view, those intentions will likely take an
unintended irony detour (among other kinds). You've been warned..

Inasmuch as this admission has doomed me from the start, I suppose I
could find a friend in futility. There is a cold cup of coffee
perched expectantly upon my desk that I could salt with crocodile
tears. There are errands that await completion (said errands do not
rhyme with "laundry"). There's that inescapable issue of employment
(did I mention the bulk of this entry was written while working or
maintaining a semblance thereof?). And yet, none of the former offer
the clarity of a catharsis. Bearing that and my hatred of necessary
yet perfunctory chores in mind (again, not laundry) , I'll give this a
go.

Before I proceed, I'll remind you of the topic of which I have lost
sight (as demonstrated by the tangential breaks and assiduous asides).
Diversity. Or lack thereof. I am calling into question the motives for
restricting the scope of one's experiences to the familiar, be it
consciously or otherwise (or at least, that's what I'm attempting
clumsily to do). Present company included, this banal behavior is a
symptom from which no one is immune.

Full disclosure: this isn't to make light of the subject entirely,
but the circumstances that prompted the conception of this entry are,
in part, related to my gluttonous devotion to a particular flavor of
ice cream (whose name and disposition shall remain unnamed), whole
pints of which I devour with gusto in a single sitting (don't judge
me, jerk).

It was through the indulgence of this vice, my confectionary quasi
muse, that the I, by accident, began to recall instances present and
past related to the subject at hand, the most pronounced of which both
unfortunately and inevitably involve my ethnicity (by the way, I'm
black). Most troubling of these instances were the occasions in which
these stagnant views or behaviors were carried on by friends, family
and colleagues. Such situations present an awkwardness so acute that
even twenty some-odd years of existence haven't made the feeling any
more obtuse (but this discussion is for another time).

Though I have always dismissed such ignorance, this thought made me
consider another equally awkward thought. Sure, it's easy to fancy
oneself the forward-thinker. You confront the old world views of the
curmedgeon who, for better or worse, is still related to you; you just
say "no" to sweeping generalizations; you openly and adamently express
your disapproval for the occasional inappropriate remark made in
confidence by your dead-brained friend.

Until it hits you-- your average encounters are utterly homogenous and
you're the worst kind of hypocrite. Force of habit has hanged you out
to dry. This isn't to say that you haven't achieved a sense of
fulfillment from such bonds. But your friends are carbon copies of
you or worse yet, vice-versa. Your pool of sexual partners, dating
prospectives and monogamy mishaps might as well be the same person.
And worse yet, upon being asked, you're readily able to identify your
token friend of choice (insert ethnicity, sexuality, political party,
religious affiliation or Red Sox fan).

Obviously, there exists a disconnect here. You call yourself an
enjoyer of ice cream, and yet as if by rote, you find yourself mostly,
if not only, remaining loyal to your seemingly never-failing vanilla
bean cookie dough posse.

The above rant begs two questions, which I'll ask in order of importance:

First, how many times have you inadvertently fallen prey to the very
sentiments you eschew?

Secondly, who the fuck is not craving ice cream right now?

Posted July 20, 2010
 

Farce de Feminine

In life, she loved many. But if you asked her, he was the only one.  And though this wasn’t the first time I had heard this canary of a  woman sing this tune, I didn’t want to burst her bubble for fear of reality rushing in on my account. Even so, I wanted to believe her when she said the others had meant nothing. She was punch drunk with love, so much so that the residual fumes of her incapacitation induced a  contagion that dared you, against the advisements of reason, to have faith in the premise of her puppy love proclamations (however shoddy). Alas, this contagion is no match for the sound sagacity one acquires after coming to terms with the loss of love and its subsequent effects on every relationship, regardless of the degree, from thereon. This was a process she had simply eschewed. The wound hadn’t healed as much  as it had been padded and reinforced with countless buffers. It hadn’t festered long enough for her to understand that even pretty things have ugly baggage. Duality had been her foe. Her eyes screamed conviction; her words, naiveté.

I nearly couldn’t contain the bowel-quaking guffaw that threatened to expose my doubt in her assessment that the others had merely been “training wheels” preparing her for the “right one.” A half dealing in halves she was. How naturally she spoke of such clichés as if the “training wheels” had merely been a means to an end and as if she had been cognizant of it all along. No one is that sure, and that’s precisely the point. Oozing oaths won’t change this. Nor will exorbitant displays. It is a world where words can fall short and actions can overcompensate. And just because you say it, it doesn’t make it true.

It was at this moment that I knew, all respect due, that I could never be this woman.

Posted November 12, 2009
 

Or Some Semblance Thereof

The lack of light gives license to the licentious lies that leave our
lips. In the morning, I’ll be gone. In the darkness, words mean
nothing. In the meantime, we’ll build the future that will never come
to fruition.

Posted November 5, 2009
 

Sogged to the teeth: The Drunk or the Egg

The hanging clouds are pallbearers of the coming day. I knew this upon  waking and was further convinced upon rising from that womb of warmth
otherwise known as my beloved bed. Of the things I can recall vaguely, the most resonant reverie of yesterday’s stupor was the recurring request that I, tenderly referred to as “skinny bitch” for the interim of my stay at the dungeon of drag queenery, eat a goddamn sandwich  (“please” was added for etiquette’s sake). Perhaps I should have heeded the unsolicited advice. Only three mimosas in to what would become the Mimosapalooza of Lord’s Day drinking, I was a budding cautionary tale du jour. And how.

And so it goes that the Eggs Benedict for which I starved prior to  being put up on the complimentary drink-‘til-you-drop [and/or achieve  liver failure (whichever comes first)] mimosa and Bloody Mary circuit no longer suited my tastes. Fork in hand, I furiously fiddled at the gelatinous egg flesh as its sunny center seeped throughout, soggying the English muffin beyond recognition and palatability much to the chagrin of my server, called Estawyna (I’m venturing a guess on the spelling), a towering figure exuding the sort of grace one acquires by birth, fickle fine-tuning and an almost-religious devotion to Cher videos. The only hitch to the façade, however, was that Estawyna walked like a woman, but she talked like a man. Lola. Lo-Lo-Lo-Lo-Lola. That notwithstanding, she was still as much of a woman, if not more, than I. And sober to boot.

Posted October 24, 2009