I need a drink. Anything will do. White port or whiskey. Vodka or rum. Heck, I’ll even go so low as to down a bottle of Thunderbird and not bitch about the grape peels between my teeth, at least not too hard.
It was cold today, cold enough to freeze the small of my back. I was wearing a silly shirt that was attractively cut off at the waist, layed nominally with a black men’s button down, and my good demin jacket with the mockingbird pin. I went walking to North Beach via China Town, in an attempt to try and clear my head. landlords, aborted short story writing, a feeling of impending doom – all of it made me need to walk hills until my thighs burnt and my legs ached. I walked right past liquor stores, bars, cafes and restaurants. I walked past the man who sells the delicious smelling bao buns, and the place that does those neat shaved rolls of ice cream with clever flavors. I walked past Smirnoff, Courvoisier, Bombay blue and mad dog 20 20. 2020 made mad dogs of all of us, not just the bum wine drinkers. I ran past thick fruity cocktails with fat straws and hunks of pineapple and maraschino cherries. I hustled past the corner boys with their sad dropping eyes. I half considered sitting on a bench with a take out pint of rum and a presumptuous headache.
It was one of those days. You see straight men, I suspect, write poetry mainly to get women into bed. I write to get over their attentions and destructions. “Do you want to see my etchings,” is the mating cry of the cultured straight male. I don’t know about the gay ones. They seem somewhat more civilized, or at least straight forward in their affections. I feel like men are constantly gaslighting me. I just want them to be straight with me, to come right out and say it: “You are only worth what is between your legs, and when that has dried up with age and disinterest due to abuse, you should have the decency to shrivel up and die.” I would respect that far more. I am not about to start whining about no one loving me. Heck, at this point, I don’t want the responsibility of some one else’s love for me on my bloodied conscience. I only desire to walk this world unmolested, and have a place to shut the door and hide at the end of each forsaken day. My bed might be my most beloved possession. I can draw those blankets over my head and pretend the world has disappeared and gone silent on me. I cannot stand the noise: the noise in my head, the noise outside, the noise that won’t cease, won’t let up, won’t let me rest or retreat into my head. I can’t take any more noise. I feel as if I might go insane.
It started to get dark out there, and I was already soaked to the bone by the time I realized I had to head back to let the man in to fix the damn heating. I was already irritated by bad poetry. I don’t mean poorly written, or even dull, simply the kind that after you read it, it makes you feel soul-sickened, in that Andrew Marvell kinda way. All that “vegetable love” and “making the sun run”, and worms trying the long preserved virginity of a woman who was too intelligent to put out makes me want to cease to exist, in the same way Abba and that dancing queen happy clappy shit gets me staring at the sharp side of the blade. If war made Hemmingway brilliant, if Dylan Thomas invented lyric(al) poetry that made all the grrrls in the valley want to pet his head and buy him shots of whiskey. If Ginsburg intentions were purely homoerotic and intellectually psychotic, and at least interesting, if Kerouac wrote entire novels full of the beat and the swing, if all this is true, it is also true that every single one of them used it to impress the fuck outta the guys and grrrrls they wanted to get hot and heavy with. I can’t blame them. I mean, when I broke it to a certain innocent boyfriend that girls liked sex too, he looked like he needed a dark room, a wet rag for his head and a stiff drink.
The fire alarm is still chirruping. It is driving me insane. I suppose I might continue this tomorrow if anyone cares. You see I write poetry because I have an exhibitionist streak and I am trying to make sense of the world. I might stop talking to men entirely. They only feel alive when they are fucking.
Fortunately for most of us women, many more men are the exact opposite of the men you have known. Take heart, when you are a famous writer you will be loved for all the right reasons. 2022 is your year.
Ah, I know there are some good ones out there, but they are rare – few and far between. Or else I am just a dickhead magnet.
I think they are attracted to you, not the other way around. Sometimes when you are looking for Mr. Right, Mr. Wrong gets in the way and makes a good case for himself hiding the Mr. Wrong. Write those wonderful stories, and you will find what you are looking for. Sometimes you have to trip over it before you realize it is right in front of you. Sending Hugs to both of you.
Ah, it is all too late now. Im too old and jaded and tired. Sending love to you too darling xx
Hmm…to quote James Taylor “I reckon I must be just an old softy, Cause I still believe in love.”…so I hope you’ll find yours…that is “true love.”
I am ok with being alone from here on in, but the sentiment is truly lovely. I’ve had my time, Im just an old girl now. It is kinda nice to see your tender side. Thank you for making me smile and surprising me!
I like James Taylor. I hope you have your ‘true love’. I am now too jaded, my friend…plus Im ancient. It’s ok. I had my time, I had my chances and I blew them.
Thanks, I need all the love I can get. I am still doing some sewing for people and today I plan to learn how to thread my Serger! Should be fun. Look for some blue smoke rising from down South. There might be some unfamilar words floating around, too! I put a zipper in the front of a hoodie this morning, it was fun. Had to cut down the front and sew zipper in. My machine was not happy, but it was a trooper.
Fabulous! That is so wholesome! Looking south down the hill right now!
😂😭 I totally laughed when I saw this title, there is so much truth in it… And I weep for the harder realities that you wrote about. And I think it is something that has become a truth for our civilization that needs to be changed, that a woman is by and large only valued when she is young and perceived to be attractive…
I think it has always been this way. I am not sure how much sense there is in fighting it, my friend, except on a personal level. Too many women fall for it, put up with it, and make excuses for it. To be frank, the way a lot of men behaved that bird had better be gold fucking plated and multifunctional.
Very interesting take. Thanks for sharing that. An unexpected but pleasant read.
Did you see the blue smoke. The directions left one tiny little thing out and had to re-thread the most difficult thread. I have it mostly done. Will have to try to sew on it today.
You know I think I did..and the furious whirring in the distance! That is amazing! What are you making?
I am not making anything right now, I am learning how to thread the beast! It has 4 threads and you need tweezers to grab the thread. I got it threaded and was able to sew an edge on some scrap cloth. It can do magic things when I learn a lot more about it. I would like to be able to make specialty clothes for entertainers and for costumes for cosplay and more.
That sounds amazing! I hope you will share your projects!
Hurrah!
YEa!