I went dance running through the woods today. That's when you put on some big headphones (because your ears are shaped differently than other people's and the earbuds they make for runners never stay in) and shove your iphone (which is your music because you don't have a nifty tiny ipod) in your mother's sport's bra (which you're wearing because you like it better than yours) and jog like you've just scored a touchdown...knees high, arms reaching for the sky, throwing dramatic turns and making a periodic microphone of your fist so that you might join in the epic call from Pat Benatar reminding you that yes, we belong to each other.
I did that. I ran up the hill through a canopy of yellow leaved, bowing branches. The wind blew hard as I made pirouettes on mossed rocks and leaned against the damp bark of autumn hemlocks. I ran to the meadow then stopped. A gust, carrying a dozen yellow leaves pulled me from my anthem and begged my affection. I turned the music off, resting the soggy headphones around my neck.
A leaf landed on my left breast and I watched others sail to the ground. A broken mushroom cap, showing its creamy gills had been nibbled. Nearby a field of silver acorns disguised themselves as giant beetles until I moved closer to inspect them. I decided to walk back. It was an abrupt transition from my superhero cavort to a quiet autumn dreamscape.
I warmed into my surroundings, decanting myself. The forest unfurled its scent with my attention. Wet wood and fungal umbrellas descended in aromatic layers. I wondered how my scent mixed with the melange and imagined myself a perfume for the pinewood. Slow motion walking, I came to a point in the path I had run past minutes before. Another burst of wind pulled a school of leaves through the air. I shivered.
Above me, pinned in the canopy, a dead branch the size of my body, quivering in delicate suspension perpendicular to the ground. The slightest breath of wind might set it free.
I knew the perfect timing of its fall could end a life or paralyze or at least cause a serious head injury. I thought of other people passing beneath it, unaware of their momentary increased risk of death.
I had been worrying about other things before this place found me, ways to justify my existence - how to bring the circus to Haiti, should I go to graduate school, if I'll ever finish that book, whether I should build a yurt and live on a farm or move back to the city, what logo to use on my website, etc… Thoughts like the flailing arms of eager kindergarteners hoping to be called on when they know the answer. When I saw the tree branch, the brain buzzing hushed.
I walked underneath it. I closed my eyes.
It felt like my body was possessed by ants - a crawling sensation, "Get away! Move! Don't fucking stand here Stupid!" Everything in me yelled. I could only stand there for a few seconds.
This mind in my brain thinks it's saving me. There are always branches trembling above, ready to fall. The only difference is I know about this one.
"Don't wanna leave you really, I've invested too much time
To give you up that easy, to the doubts that complicate your mind
We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder…"
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
It's hard to feel sexy with a skank rash on my face
It's not really a skank rash - I mean, I did give a few dozen blow jobs and had the pleasure of burying my face in some delectable female delights over the weekend, but really...it's not a skank rash.
Sometimes when the weather changes I get a little crack at the side of my mouth. My ego, strong as it is, rebels against this mild mar on my visage with a ferocity that would match that of mama bear defending her young. I attack.
After a day or so of patience I went after it. I rubbed it with tinctures, applied coconut oil, tea tree oil, jojoba oil, marula oil, vitamin e oil. I washed it, put vinegar on it. I even cleaned it with my own urine. Gross? Well, yes I am...and (ahem) I would risk anything to keep my poor sweet image safe and beautifully static. When it wouldn't disappear (and, in fact, worsened - I have no idea why) I caved and used a topical steroid. If I can just give it a quick fix, I'll be more attractive. It's hard to feel sexy when there is a blemish at the corner of my lip. (And I like to feel sexy).
As part of a gross reaction to steroid cream, the rash began to spread. I didn't have to do anything except go to NYC to visit friends I had not seen in months. Naturally, I covered the deformation with foundation.
Yes, it worsened.
Soon the little crack at the corner of my mouth had become a clown-lip, crusty yuck face. Deep breath.
I had to go to New York anyway. I wanted to be beautiful. I didn't feel it though. It's unreasonable to feel sexy with a skank rash on my face.
Got to the point where I had to drop back into myself. I could no longer cover it up - there was no use. It was painful and fed up. I wanted to crawl inside somewhere and not come out until I had healed and could again present my crust free smile.
I don't live in New York right now. I stay with friends. I could not hide away. So I reached inside myself and turned it around.
I realized at any moment a change like this (or one far more permanent) could land on my reality. Who knows, after some exciting sexual escapade I may actually contract a rash. I may fall on my face, tumble into a patch of poison ivy, collide with a confused goose while on a rollercoaster, breaking my perfect nose (I know how you feel Fabio), I might get into a street fight with a pitbull, get hit by a car (again), piss off a leprosy-curse-casting warlock...
Would that mean I could never feel sexy again? No! Even with the stigma attached to a rash around the mouth, even though it's unreasonable, I decided to try, just try, and feel sexy anyway.
Perhaps sexy doesn't need reciprocation. Perhaps sexy does not need to be validated through a whistle or a pick up line. Maybe sexy is something felt, not seen. While it's hard to feel sexy with a skank rash on my face, it is far from impossible.
I walk down the street, I order coffee, I smile at strangers, I admire attractive men and women, I perform for a crowd, I flirt, I see old friends and pretend like I am radiantly beautiful. I am full of sexy, it spills from every gesture like a honey waterfall. Ha!
Sexy, beautiful, attractive, has nothing to do with the measly two dimensions reflected in mirrors. It cannot be fabricated or reasoned with. It is felt.
I still pick at it. I still worry about it. I still wish it would go the fuck away. I still daub at it with topical medicines and think twice after peeing. That voice keeps whispering lies about how sexy and skank rash can't co-exist. But when I do feel that way (y'know, sexy), no voice can argue with it. It is not something seen, it's unreasonable.
It's Velveteen Rabbit sexy. All shabby and lumpy and worn and real...but that's another blog.
Sometimes when the weather changes I get a little crack at the side of my mouth. My ego, strong as it is, rebels against this mild mar on my visage with a ferocity that would match that of mama bear defending her young. I attack.
After a day or so of patience I went after it. I rubbed it with tinctures, applied coconut oil, tea tree oil, jojoba oil, marula oil, vitamin e oil. I washed it, put vinegar on it. I even cleaned it with my own urine. Gross? Well, yes I am...and (ahem) I would risk anything to keep my poor sweet image safe and beautifully static. When it wouldn't disappear (and, in fact, worsened - I have no idea why) I caved and used a topical steroid. If I can just give it a quick fix, I'll be more attractive. It's hard to feel sexy when there is a blemish at the corner of my lip. (And I like to feel sexy).
As part of a gross reaction to steroid cream, the rash began to spread. I didn't have to do anything except go to NYC to visit friends I had not seen in months. Naturally, I covered the deformation with foundation.
Yes, it worsened.
Soon the little crack at the corner of my mouth had become a clown-lip, crusty yuck face. Deep breath.
I had to go to New York anyway. I wanted to be beautiful. I didn't feel it though. It's unreasonable to feel sexy with a skank rash on my face.
Got to the point where I had to drop back into myself. I could no longer cover it up - there was no use. It was painful and fed up. I wanted to crawl inside somewhere and not come out until I had healed and could again present my crust free smile.
I don't live in New York right now. I stay with friends. I could not hide away. So I reached inside myself and turned it around.
I realized at any moment a change like this (or one far more permanent) could land on my reality. Who knows, after some exciting sexual escapade I may actually contract a rash. I may fall on my face, tumble into a patch of poison ivy, collide with a confused goose while on a rollercoaster, breaking my perfect nose (I know how you feel Fabio), I might get into a street fight with a pitbull, get hit by a car (again), piss off a leprosy-curse-casting warlock...
Would that mean I could never feel sexy again? No! Even with the stigma attached to a rash around the mouth, even though it's unreasonable, I decided to try, just try, and feel sexy anyway.
Perhaps sexy doesn't need reciprocation. Perhaps sexy does not need to be validated through a whistle or a pick up line. Maybe sexy is something felt, not seen. While it's hard to feel sexy with a skank rash on my face, it is far from impossible.
I walk down the street, I order coffee, I smile at strangers, I admire attractive men and women, I perform for a crowd, I flirt, I see old friends and pretend like I am radiantly beautiful. I am full of sexy, it spills from every gesture like a honey waterfall. Ha!
Sexy, beautiful, attractive, has nothing to do with the measly two dimensions reflected in mirrors. It cannot be fabricated or reasoned with. It is felt.
I still pick at it. I still worry about it. I still wish it would go the fuck away. I still daub at it with topical medicines and think twice after peeing. That voice keeps whispering lies about how sexy and skank rash can't co-exist. But when I do feel that way (y'know, sexy), no voice can argue with it. It is not something seen, it's unreasonable.
It's Velveteen Rabbit sexy. All shabby and lumpy and worn and real...but that's another blog.
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