The Book

I got through some writing last night. I'd forgotten how much I'd already done. It's intimidating because I'm holding myself to a much higher standard than usual - the kind that's pretty much make it publishably perfect or don't waste my own living space. And the fact that once or twice a year I think I can be that person, well, that's pretty amazing.... but the rest of the time, what the heck? Really?

on dark little hovels

It's been a few days. I think I'm brave enough to open my book and do some writing. And by my book, I mean the novel that's been very poorly neglected. In fact, maybe you didn't even know I was writing it. Well, now you do. Great. Giving myself expectations to live up to that aren't mine now.

The question at hand was why dank, wretched, dirty little hovels make for the best creative space. The answer is surprisingly simple: When you have absolutely no distractions, no material wealth, and very few standards to live up to, it is shockingly easy to see beauty and feel love in those dark places. Every little thought, act, feeling, reaction - it all feels like more somehow. When you're not sure where your next meal is coming from, it's actually easier to stop and smell the flowers. When you don't know if you'll have a roof over your head the next night or not, well, it makes it a lot easier to wait for the train home while sitting somewhere out of the way on the platform. And if you're told that only (insert racist slang term for local native peoples here) sit on the kerb while having a snack, and you're the kind of person who feels injustice at that, the remark makes it easier to just stay sitting. (Don't y'all see that I'm clearly not the kind of person you can put a label on and walk away from? I'm asking you by my non-interaction to engage with me on a soul level because that's where I'm at and that's how I'm seeing you right now and it would be just oh so amazing if you'd deign to come down here and show me who you are underneath your skin...)

There was a giant centipede on the front step. Its body was slowly being eaten by ants. Welcome home.
Inside everything was sticky from the humidity - the walls, the dishes, the countertops, chairs, tables, even somehow the bed linens. The bathroom was in a permanent state of funk, the shower curtain long ago ceasing to be of the realm of the living. A gentle, hot breeze wafted through the open window. Sweat greased the edges of the writer's hairline and pooled on her lower back, stinging her fresh tattoo. She reached into the fridge for some yogurt-ish dairy-like snack. The container was covered in a layer of slippery moisture. She was grateful it was plastic and not paper.
The apartment was shared space. Last night while she was reclusive in her upstairs bedroom (the bed smelled of mould) the dining area of the apartment had been overtaken by a fellow from New Zealand, a mate of his from the island, and someone from South America he'd met somewhere who claimed to be a shaman. She'd declined an offer to join them with wine, attempting to stay the course of being faithful to her writing instead of the so-called sins of the flesh. (Or was that pleasures of the flesh?) When she awoke hours later from her nap to discover it wasn't midnight and the party downstairs was full of obnoxious stories being told, she wished to reconsider her decision. In the end she decided that she was feeling far too self-conscious to possibly pull of the dramatic entrance required of such an incredibly late arrival to the party. Also, she had no gifts, and was under the impression that it was uncool to arrive at a party with a shaman and not bring gifts, even if she thoroughly doubted his shamanic abilities. Whatever the case, party demonstrated that he did have the ability to tell a story and captivate an audience, which is at least half the gift.
The island was paradise, but for the purpose of her mission it was not nearly run-down and dirty enough. Mission? To work on a book started in what felt like a prior life, so very long ago. This mission was about to be interrupted by the arrival of her ex-boyfriend, who, she was quite certain, had only decided to follow her to such a remote place in the south Pacific with the intention of repairing their relationship. She was adamant that this would not happen. The fact that he'd planned to stay for nearly the whole month put a severe damper on her plans to write. The island was too small to hide from each other, especially given they had so much in common in terms of interests.
The space she'd been hoping to find for writing, the ideal space, would have been much more run down, dirty, more hovel-like. The kind of space where she wouldn't feel bad cracking a cold Cook's Lager at 8 a.m., or not showering every day, or wearing out the same pair of island shorts and white shirt, now just a little too dirty from being worn every day. The book demands that kind of atmosphere.

*******

My profile picture on this blog was taken by said ex boyfriend on the island of Rarotonga. My book is still largely unfinished, but if it ever does get finished, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I invite comments as to why I feel the need for dank little hovels as the best creative space...

Why Jen and skirts don't love each other

I had a very good comment from a friend in the Church yesterday who said Blogger said her comment was too long to post. Boo blogger!

But in Jen-speak, the gist of it was that particular items of clothing are worn ritualistically (really, it is a ritual to get dressed up for church)to show reverence for the Divine.

I can respect that a whole lot more...

and in further discussion with said friend discovered that my issue is actually not so much with the policy as with my own feelings of vulnerability. Apparently wearing a skirt makes me feel vulnerable, a feeling that can be overcome with the presence of my husband - literally within arm's reach. Otherwise, the vast majority of the times that I've worn skirts (dance performances excepted) or dresses, they've been over pants. Or shorts. But usually pants. Sometimes capris.

Wearing skirts makes me feel hideously uncomfortable. Wearing skirts over pants is just about the most awesome thing I ever could have come up with and have been doing for most of my life.

There was quite a bit more soul-searching than that involved in what I replied to my friend. The fact that I know she's going to consider what I said and give me a real answer, and not a canned Church policy answer, is probably why I consider her such a good friend. And I am very curious to hear what she has to say... and to find out what the Church might think if I showed up with pants under my skirt.

Assuming I get over the other reasons why I stopped going to church...

appropriate clothing

I was daydreaming on the topic of things that are and are not appropriate to wear to work. I draw the line at backless shirts that show bras, and lace shirts that also show bras, even if they're only lace in the back. And as much as I might want to, I'd never wear a strapless anything to work. One of my favourite summer dresses is strapless. I might wear it as a skirt to work, but not as a top.

This then brought back a memory. A what was I thinking kind of memory.

I was in church. Specifically, a Relief Society meeting. I'd worn my little black dress because it was the only skirt-like thing I owned that was clean. I should add that there is an unwritten rule (at least, I think it's unwritten) that women are only allowed in the chapel in skirts. Anyone who knows me knows that this really, really, really pisses me off. This is dumb. I didn't own skirts that weren't part of dance costumes until I started going to church.

On this particular day, as mentioned, I was in the little black dress. It had little black sleeves. It was a button up dress. It was also particularly short. When I sat down and crossed my legs, you could see entirely too much leg for church. Which I realized But Eff Me, seriously, with what happened next.

The "talk" was begun with a "reminder" about the nature of appropriate clothing to wear to church, especially how our skirts should not be too short.

I have no idea which sister gave the talk. I don't care. I don't even know if she'd seen me. But do you know how I felt? I damn near walked out. If you're going to make a misogynist rule about women having to wear skirts in the chapel, in my not particularly humble or non-hostile opinion, you've just lost the right to have any control over those skirts whatsoever.

Maybe next time I'll wear the little black skirt with the laces down the sides. And maybe I'll find a shirt with a lace back and wear a flourescent bra underneath it. Maybe I'll put my hair in a mowhawk while I'm at it and wear a thick layer of sparkles on my eyes. And to top it off you know I'd have to break out the 5-inch stiletto heels and fishnet stockings.

I don't disbelieve that my church means well, and as anyone who has seen me at work and read past dissertations on how I don't own anything sexy unless a vaguely tight wool sweater counts, clearly I am about 95% conservative in my dressing habits. And I'd have to say my clothes are pretty nice too. Even (especially) my pants.

That said, the Church can take its outdated, misogynist Bee Es and keep it. Far. Far. FAR. away from me. God gave me female genitals. How I choose to portray that in society is between me, and God. I'm not going around burning my bra, or advocating for anything that would get my picture in the DSM.

In fact, I'm not even sure why this is still an issue in the Church. And I know I'm not the first woman who's expressed discomfort at having to show up somewhere in a skirt. Unless, of course, it's a miniskirt. In which case I'm delighted you invited me!