The men in my life have made me wish I didn't have a body.
The partner who took the bags of groceries out of my hands, because he was the man, despite my telling him I could carry them myself, so that my muscles shrank and my strength decayed.
The brother who would think it was okay for any man to stare at a woman's body if it were the type he thought a woman should be confident about, because he likes to stare at women's bodies too, and can't fault others for doing what he does, even if they are doing it to his sister, who doesn't want them to.
The friend who would fetishize my breasts, but who would not hold my body.
The father who treats his wife and sister with derision for the weight they have gained over the years, and asks me why I have gained a few inches, but doesn't think that this will make me feel worthless.
The partner who would use my body in ways I asked him not to, but would not help me through great physical pain when I begged him to.
The brother and cousin who tell me that if I were to keep my eyes lowered as a bride - a common custom that is supposed to convey modesty, but is also problematically gendered and normative - they would be be ashamed of me.
The friend who cherishes the way I make him laugh, the thoughts and understandings we can share, but who would never let me rest my head against his chest, or my hand over his heart.
The partner who would expect affection when it suited him, but who would not touch me when it didn't.
The colleague who would kiss me for helping him meet his idol, but not for being mine.
The uncle who would make sexual jokes that depict women as being valuable only for their sexual capacity, in the company of the family, and would not stop when we would tell him it wasn't funny.
The men in my life, they do not love me in a way that is kind to my body. They may love the person they think I am. They may love the wit and intelligence, the strength and the humour they see in me, but they do not love my flesh. The men in my life ignore the nerves and emotions tangled up in my body. I wish I didn't have one.
March 25, 2009
These are my minutes
In the course of 15 minutes, you'd like to tell the world your story.
There's nothing arbitrary about these 15 minutes. They're all you have until you have to move on to a new life. Like the 15 minutes in a cab on the way to your lawyer's office, where you will sign the divorce papers your wife wants you to sign three months after confessing to you the affair she's carried on with a college TA, met long before your courtship began.
It's a pity, though, that these are the only 15 minutes you have, because these are my 15 minutes, not yours. In fact, those 3 minutes that just passed? They were my minutes. As well as the one I just spent in silence. In the remaining 11 minutes I will give the world a piece of myself. You sit here and languish.
I have memories that are disembodied. Lives lived long, long ago. The feeling of calves pulling tendons pulling ankles lifting soles from foam. Foam lifting from cement. Ribs and arms encased in thin layers of cotton, too cool for the early spring weather, eyes tilted up, neck craning. It's a memory I relive too often. A memory that reminds me of distance.
7 minutes. A confession: 7 and 5 is my favourite combination of numbers. 5, a precious increment, a tenuous age, an incising number of letters. Enough to encase a life, to convey a lifetime's sentiment. An infinite sort of number. And 7, of little consequence. But intriguing for its oddity, for its excessiveness. And together, so worthless. Such a trope. So overdone. A number I've little taste for.
I've got less and less time on my side, but still an ample supply. The trouble with time is that you may never know it's there, that there are vast seas of it ahead of you, and yet you will waste it like copper or water, left running, tossed carelessly into a city bin at the corner on your way to school. 2 minutes left.
This is not what I had intended it to be, but perhaps it will be, one day. In any case, the stakes are being set. A toe-dragged line in the gravel. A juice box and a cap in the grass. This is where I will make fortunes out of nothing. This is where I will begin again my life.
There's nothing arbitrary about these 15 minutes. They're all you have until you have to move on to a new life. Like the 15 minutes in a cab on the way to your lawyer's office, where you will sign the divorce papers your wife wants you to sign three months after confessing to you the affair she's carried on with a college TA, met long before your courtship began.
It's a pity, though, that these are the only 15 minutes you have, because these are my 15 minutes, not yours. In fact, those 3 minutes that just passed? They were my minutes. As well as the one I just spent in silence. In the remaining 11 minutes I will give the world a piece of myself. You sit here and languish.
I have memories that are disembodied. Lives lived long, long ago. The feeling of calves pulling tendons pulling ankles lifting soles from foam. Foam lifting from cement. Ribs and arms encased in thin layers of cotton, too cool for the early spring weather, eyes tilted up, neck craning. It's a memory I relive too often. A memory that reminds me of distance.
7 minutes. A confession: 7 and 5 is my favourite combination of numbers. 5, a precious increment, a tenuous age, an incising number of letters. Enough to encase a life, to convey a lifetime's sentiment. An infinite sort of number. And 7, of little consequence. But intriguing for its oddity, for its excessiveness. And together, so worthless. Such a trope. So overdone. A number I've little taste for.
I've got less and less time on my side, but still an ample supply. The trouble with time is that you may never know it's there, that there are vast seas of it ahead of you, and yet you will waste it like copper or water, left running, tossed carelessly into a city bin at the corner on your way to school. 2 minutes left.
This is not what I had intended it to be, but perhaps it will be, one day. In any case, the stakes are being set. A toe-dragged line in the gravel. A juice box and a cap in the grass. This is where I will make fortunes out of nothing. This is where I will begin again my life.
February 15, 2009
Today Is not a Day Worth Comemmorating
Today is February 15th, and that is how I'll always remember it. A day after February 14th, a day before the 16th. Nothing in between.
There are many things I could say. Many things I could share. But I would tell them to the wind, and the wind would carry them away. There is nothing to stop the ebb of me on a day such as today. Nothing happens on this day.
There is a puddle of me spilling over itself on the floor. I'm a melting, lapping mess. I'm a pile of death and dust. Once this all was life.
I'll never forget what I held. I'll never forget the smell, the feeling, the colour. I'll never forget unfurling it, open, and letting the water carry it away. But that did not happen today. That was another day. And today, I have nothing to remember.
There are many things I could say. Many things I could share. But I would tell them to the wind, and the wind would carry them away. There is nothing to stop the ebb of me on a day such as today. Nothing happens on this day.
There is a puddle of me spilling over itself on the floor. I'm a melting, lapping mess. I'm a pile of death and dust. Once this all was life.
I'll never forget what I held. I'll never forget the smell, the feeling, the colour. I'll never forget unfurling it, open, and letting the water carry it away. But that did not happen today. That was another day. And today, I have nothing to remember.
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