C.S. Inkheart

teacup getaways & bookish escapes

frecklestars — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 02:57:14 GMT

LJ Idol week 30 (6/6): vacation

It's an understatement to say that I was a very imaginative child. I blame it on my mom, who encouraged me to go fight thorn witches in the backyard and dine on lilac sandwiches as a reward. Lilac sandwiches consisted of a sprig of flowers slapped between two fat green leaves, and were best consumed with "tea" (i.e. sugar water) in the company of hummingbirds. I have spent a good deal of my life imagining myself into places I'd rather be. I can travel the world and then some in twenty-four short hours.

In the morning, I visit Sri Lanka with a cup of tea. The tea plantations are soft emerald hills that are cut to resemble steps. The heart of the country is also the heart of tea production. With each sip, I can taste labor in the hot sun and the occasional welcome breeze. With each sip, I can feel the dirt under my feet and the leaves that I roll between brown fingers before stuffing them into the sack slung over my back. While waiting for the leaves to stretch their arms and shamelessly unfurl, I appreciate the curls of steam that dance just above the cup.

At midday, I find myself in England. I move from London to Yorkshire in a few well-chosen sentences. The narrator, Margaret Lea, and I discover the ghosts of burned-out houses and abandoned children left to grow wild. I see snowdrifts out of the corner of my eye even though it's June. The walls around me seem to swallow sound, as though they were covered in the flocked wallpaper that is in Margaret's room. I am reading myself into a country that was in my heart before I ever even set foot in it.

Every night, I disappear. My dream-worlds are varied and vast, often populated by unimaginably strange creatures who have undulating ribbon-wings and heads full of lotus blossoms. Califorrow, the kingdom of worlds in which I dream, contains Chinese garden mazes and ruined theaters and cottages inside waterfalls. There is the old factory with its' crumbling brick walls which I have only seen while running. Or the theater-school that is close to the borders of Catherynne Valente's dream-world of Palimpsest. Califorrow is a collection of lands filled with fog, abandoned buildings, and ruins of decadence.

I have the ability to take a vacation in a teacup. I nap between the pages of books, making the paper rustle when I turn over restlessly. At night, I simultaneously build and inhabit new worlds that I will write wildly about in the flush of dawn lest I forget them. In a single day, I can go from Sri Lanka to the moors of dreary old England to the mountainous stretches of Califorrow. And I don't even have to deal with the TSA.

(Author's note: the particular book I'm referring to is The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield and I highly recommend it.)

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥ something happened ♥ an act of apparition ♥ ray guns & Rocky Horror ♥ the leviathan on my couch ♥ religious remix culture ♥ why the internet is not Vegas ♥ adrenaline sans risk ♥

adrenaline sans risk

frecklestars — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 22:13:46 GMT

LJ Idol week 30 (5/6): scared money never wins

I don't gamble. With anything. Ever.

I'm an adrenaline junkie, sure, but not a true risk taker. When I want adrenaline, I chase it in a calculated and well thought out manner. For some people that might kill the high, but for me, it's the only way I can do it. I refuse to leave that much to chance. Lady Luck does not exactly inspire confidence in me.

I have a back-up plan for everything. I have health insurance. I don't live beyond my means. I don't have credit card debt. So while most people have a plan A and maybe some have a plan B, I also have plans C-F. Maybe this makes me sound a little nuts. A little over-prepared. That's probably true. (It also probably has a lot to do with my anxiety disorder.) But it means that things rarely come out of nowhere for me. If there's even the remotest possibility of something happening, you can bet on me having thought about said possibility

Last night, I went to a friend of a friend's thirtieth birthday party. She had a Vegas-themed gambling night at a local restaurant. I'll gamble, but only when it doesn't mean anything. At the beginning of the night, we were each handed $2000 in fake money. I spent most of the night hanging out at the poker table, bluffing terribly and losing all my chips. The dealer kept handing me more chips whenever I ran out. If there's no chance of actual failure, I'll gamble like a madwoman (and usually lose spectacularly). I don't trust my own luck, so if it had been real, I would've cashed in all my chips before ever having sat down at the table, and walked away. But because we were gambling with fake money, I was able to sit and laugh and not think too much about the risks.

The only thing I take risks with is my emotional availability. I know that I fall in love easily; I'm an empath by nature. So even when I know I'd be better off not falling in love, I usually won't do much to stop it from happening.

Logically, I'm safer when I could cut off everyone in my life and still come out on top. But emotionally, that's not a healthy way to live. It's not a skill I'm proud of having honed to a fine art. It's not the way it should be. But I have trust issues, and sometimes it makes it easier if I think that I could drop everything

Only I can't, because emotional connection with other people is a necessary part of being human. That's one of the only kinds of risks I am willing to take, and it's a good one that usually has a fantastic payoff. Still, every time I take that risk, I feel like the girl in front of the dealer who has doubled-down on her cards because she's down on her luck and has everything to lose. Or gain.

Maybe you should just assume from now on that vorsaga has served as my badass beta-reader...<3

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥ something happened ♥ an act of apparition ♥ ray guns & Rocky Horror ♥ the leviathan on my couch ♥ religious remix culture ♥ why the internet is not Vegas ♥

why the internet is not Vegas

frecklestars — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 22:11:45 GMT

LJ Idol week 30 (4/6): cesspool

Urban Dictionary has a fantastic definition for the cesspool of humanity: "the comments on almost any YouTube video".

I've met too many people who think the internet is fake. Not in the sense that it doesn't exist, but in the "What you say on the internet doesn't matter [because it's not face to face]" sort of way.

O_o

Except when it does matter. What you say on the internet has the potential to stay forever. Think of it like cave paintings that have been digitized. That shit won't decay.

A meme is a vehicle to spread cultural ideas. Once those ideas shift offline, they become an active part of everyday life in the physical world. Those lolcats you love? I see that kind of grammar in my students' papers. Go out to any bar on Friday night, particularly in Silicon Valley, and you'll hear at least three references to Rage Comics. I'm not saying this infiltration is a bad thing. Actually, I think it's really funny and I'm an enthusiastic participant. But remember that what you say on the internet doesn't stay on the internet; cyberspace bleeds over into meatspace.

When you're on the job market, count on the fact that your employer is checking out your Facebook page. I've known people who have gotten fired over their photos, or people who didn't get called back for the interview because their blog is just a little too inflammatory. The internet is a place where the worst of people comes out. You've all seen it, in flame wars and spates of trolling.

[We interrupt this post to bring you a brief PSA from a paranoid interwebber: check your privacy settings. Filter aggressively. That stupid joke between you and the friend you like to get roaring drunk with every other weekend could be the thing that stands between you and your future dream job.]

Fortunately, the internet is not a total waste of pixels. The best of people can also make an appearance from time to time. The internet has inspired social change, as well as giving people access to a way of making that change happen (e.g. the protests about SOPA/PIPA and the Arab spring phenomenon that spread across the Middle East last year). The internet has also inspired great beauty, like a lot of Tumblr culture, and has made it possible to fund impossible dreams via Kickstarter and Kiva.

We're not unavoidably doomed to the cesspool of humanity; we have a chance to climb out. The first step, though, is to understand the power of our words on the internet. Virtual reality is still real. It'll kick your ass if you're not paying attention, but when you are, you can change the world.

Thank you vorsaga for being an unfailingly patient beta-reader.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥ something happened ♥ an act of apparition ♥ ray guns & Rocky Horror ♥ the leviathan on my couch ♥ religious remix culture ♥

religious remix culture

frecklestars — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 22:07:21 GMT

LJ Idol week 30 (3/6): appropriation

As a sociologist, I'm constantly discussing cultural appropriation with my students, especially in light of feather earrings, moccasins, and "gypsy" skirts. I want my students to think more deeply about the historical background of these fashion trends, what these items might have meant to the cultures they came from, and why my students have chosen to wear them today. Do they care about the whole culture or do they just want to look hot at the party? Are these fashion trends harmless or do they represent something more sinister?

Racialicious has a badass definition of cultural appropriation: "it's the oppression, stupid"¹. The appropriation of Native American culture is very well documented and has been particularly popular in the last couple of years. Appropriation of gypsy culture is a pretty big thing too. I mean, come on! Who doesn't love the idea of being a wanderlusty traveler who doesn't have a home? Oh wait, people who have to live like that probably don't have such a romanticized image of it. I get irritated when someone asks me if the reason I can dance is because my grandmother was a gypsy, or when I hear someone say "Since you're Native American, maybe you can find me a sweat lodge." What started as a fashion trend can quickly turn into negative reinforcement of stereotypes that do a disservice to both a culture and its' people.

Knowing that I have been guilty of cultural appropriation, and the significant impact even a pair of feather earrings can have, I begin to wonder about my spiritual identity. As an eclectic witch, my spiritual tradition is derived from a bouquet of different cultures. My patron goddesses are Brighid (the Celtic goddess of poets and healers who was later transformed into a Christian saint) and Kali (a Hindu goddess of destruction who is sometimes known as Black Mother Time). I believe that my goddesses chose me. I didn't pick them out of a particularly impressive display in some commercial retail store.

When I first discovered Wicca, the idea of eclecticism appealed to me because I had strong ties to both Egyptian, Greek, Roman, and Celtic mythologies. So Brighid was somewhat of a given; I wanted to be a doctor and loved to write poetry. As I continued to read, I discovered more and more goddesses. I found Kali (or she found me, depending on how you look at it), and she too resonated with me on a deeply spiritual level. Finding my patron goddesses felt like coming home.

The reason I ended up as an eclectic witch instead of choosing a more traditional path is that I've always been a bit obsessed with the idea of DIY. I never wanted to be descended from a long historically documented line of witches dating back to before the Burning Times. I didn't want to be part of a coven, which are generally bound by some very specific traditions. I wanted to have total freedom to find my own spiritual path through devouring as many books as possible, talking to a multitude of people, and then feeling my own way through the darkness. But by taking the DIY approach to religion and spirituality, have I appropriated - and by extension, dishonored - the cultures that resonated most deeply in my heart?

It's only more recently that I have started to examine in detail what it means to worship goddesses from different traditions. I'm a huge believer in remix culture, where the blending of many ideas results in new and wonderful stuff. However, I am hesitant to stand firmly behind something that could be called appropriation. The overtones of colonialism and exoticism make me pretty uncomfortable. I don't want to support that, but I also feel strongly about my goddesses. Hinduism is very much alive, but in my understanding the Celtic pantheons are used almost exclusively by Pagans. Is it a different story if you are borrowing from a culture that primarily exists as part of the historical record?

Am I doing a disservice to other cultures by creating an amalgam of them for my spiritual practices? If I believe I am treating the elements I use with respect, is it different from a young woman who picks up a pair of feather earrings to go with her tribal tattoo, the meaning of which she is not interested in? I don't have any answers here, only malleable ideas and an ever-growing thought-cloud, so I'm interested in yours.

How do cultures grow and change if they do not borrow and appropriate and "remix" one another?

1: Cultural appropriation is also closely tied with exoticism, which is simply "the charm of the unfamiliar" but can lead to much more unsavory things. It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with being inspired by pieces of someone else's culture, it's just that it's a lot more complicated than a simple fashion statement.

Immensely grateful to vorsaga* and enlitenedzealot for their intensive beta-reading/editing.

Further Reading
Academichic's Appropriate Vs. Appropriation
The Angry Black Woman's readers discuss/define cultural appropriation
Bitch Magazine's Feminist Intersection: On Hipsters/Hippies and Native Culture
The Critical Fashion Lover's (Basic) Guide to Cultural Appropriation
Cultural Appropriation in the Scrapbooking Industry
Cultural Borrowing/Cultural Appropriation: A Relationship Model for Respectful Borrowing
Feathers & Fashion: Native American is in Style
The Goddess Path: Myths, Invocations & Rituals by Patricia Monaghan
Heritage & Cultural Appropriation in Wicca
On the Misuse of Chinese Characters in Western Culture (particularly focuses on bad kanji tattoos)
Pagans & Cultural Appropriation (an analysis that I think is lacking)
Patty Wigington's About.com piece on Cultural Appropriation in Paganism
Which Witch is Which? (from The River Witch)

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥ something happened ♥ an act of apparition ♥ ray guns & Rocky Horror ♥ the leviathan on my couch ♥

the leviathan on my couch

frecklestars — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 21:56:14 GMT

LJ Idol week 30 (2/6): leviathan

There's a leviathan in my living room.

No, I am not hosting a couch-surfing cross-country-traveling cowboy-hat-wearing backpacking-toting sea monster. I'm talking about my first knitting project. The Big One. My mom's now-belated Christmas present.

So I'm running about six months behind. My mother did get to open it on Christmas morning in its' half-finished state, knitting needles still attached to the end. She was excited then. Now she just keeps asking me when I'm going to be done.

Never mind that this was my first knitting project ever. Or that it's as long as I am tall (about 64 inches or 162 centimeters). Or that it's nearly the width of a baby blanket. Never mind that I knit far tighter than anyone ever expected, so it has consumed three good-sized skeins of yarn. Or that, since she lives in California, she only needs a wool scarf about three months out of the year. She wants it now, Veruca-Salt-style. The impatience in her voice is palpable.

Sometimes it feels like this scarf will never be done. Except that it will. Once I bribe a friend to reinsert the needles for me because I can't get them back in without dropping every third stitch. I also got ambitious and decided to learn how to do a scalloped edge, which will make for pretty ends that look finished, but the learning curve was definitely a time-consuming one. Once I get those needles back in, all that's left is sixteen more rows of a hundred stitches each and I'm done. I can almost taste the relief in that word. Done.

After working on something for nearly seven months, handling it almost daily, I'm beginning to wonder how much of myself I've poured into that yarn. How many stories have I transferred from my heart to my fingertips and out the ends of the knitting needles? Will this sea monster of a scarf will whisper to my mother, telling her some of the things I couldn't say over the phone? Will she see the knots and wrong stitches in it and know that that's when I was knitting while sobbing? Will the scarf betray the fact that I'm not taking care of myself because the needles that I used were so discolored and scuffed? Or will my mother read only contentment in that blue ombre checkerboard? I hope my mom sees the beauty in it, because the calluses and curses were well worth it. At the end of the day, my mother will have this scarf that is made of her daughter's stories forever.

Very grateful to vorsaga* for beta-reading/editing plus rearranging so this sea monster gained a great deal more coherence than it had in its' original iteration.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥ something happened ♥ an act of apparition ♥ ray guns & Rocky Horror ♥

ray guns & Rocky Horror

frecklestars — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 05:03:18 GMT

LJ idol week 30 (1/6): gobsmacked

Shortly before my 21st birthday I shaved my head. This wouldn't have been particularly notable except for the facts that I: a) am a girl, and b) decided to do it on a whim.

You might have heard of a pop culture phenomenon called Rocky Horror, affectionately known as Rocky. Since the last 1970s, this midnight abomination has been home to freaks and weirdos who prefer to spend their evenings dancing around in tatty lingerie and gifting virgins with red lipstick prints on their cheeks. In college I was part of a shadow cast, which means we acted out the movie while it also played on the screen behind us.

For my last show, I got cast as Magenta. It was probably the role I resembled the most, even though she's an alien maid with a crazy poof of brown hair and a gaunt blond brother named Riff Raff. However, given that I had previously played the Criminologist (the narrator who's an old jowly man with very little neck) and Dr. Scott (another old man with a checkered suit and a wheelchair), this isn't saying much. In the final scenes of the show, Magenta's hair evolves from a poof into a beehive with lightning bolts down the sides. Instead of wearing another wig for the beehive, for the final scene the director decided to shave my hair into a mohawk.

The best part was that we neglected to tell the rest of the cast what was about to happen. Shortly before I had to go onstage, the director and I sneaked up to the bathroom and shaved off most of my hair. At the time, I had a pixie cut so it was already about the right length for a mohawk. When I came onstage, it was such a shock to both cast and audience that they almost missed the fact that Riff's ray gun was actually a giant lavender double-ended dildo. After the collective intake of breath, there was a brief burst of applause, and then everything continued as planned. Riff and I menaced everyone with the aforementioned ~~ray gun~~ dildo. Frank and Rocky tried to escape. Surprise glittery musical numbers happened. We took our final bows.

Afterwards, the strangest thing happened: people could still recognize me when I went from pixie cut to mohawk. But when I shaved off the mohawk after about two weeks, almost no one recognized me anymore. People, particularly women, have asked incredulously why I decided to shave it. Honestly, I didn't put too much thought into it: it's just hair, it'll grow back. When I give this response, most people are gobsmacked. They can't imagine a woman who isn't deeply invested in how her hair looks.

[Image: four images in a row demonstrating how my hair has gone from just about chin length to a buzz cut]

I do care how it looks, just not in a traditional way. I wanted something that is incredibly low maintenance, something that I can trim myself, and something that flatters me. Apparently the buzz cut fulfilled all of these requirements, because I kept getting compliments. Now I'm going back to the mohawk, albeit one that's more cleanly styled than the one I had after shaving it in a college bathroom during a time crunch. I like the idea of shocking people with my appearance in a way that doesn't involve stretched nostrils or neck tattoos. I like best to shock you with what you'd least expect.

Deeply grateful to vorsaga for beta-reading/editing and not laughing at how I look with long hair.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥ something happened ♥ an act of apparition ♥

voting in week 29

frecklestars — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 22:59:46 GMT

It's happened: we've been split back into tribes, at least for this week. There were four prompts and I managed to pick the most popular ("disappear"), which means I'm in the biggest tribe. Go me(?)

Tribe Appropriation
milk_and_glass

Tribe Disappear
frecklestars
halfshellvenus
medleymisty

Tribe Gobsmacked
pixie117

Tribe Leviathan
lrig_rorrim
whipchick

The polls are over here. Voting ends Monday June 4th at 8 p.m. EST. The Top 25 is fast approaching. (eep) Kung fu is really kicking my ass this week. Here's hoping LJ Idol won't do the same!

an act of apparition

frecklestars — Tue, 29 May 2012 15:42:26 GMT

LJ idol week 29: disappear

Like every little kid, I dreamed of being invisible. Other kids wanted to be invisible to steal cookies or stay up past their bedtime. But I wanted to be invisible so I could sneak out of the house to explore what a desert night was like without my parents, or so I could live in the natural history museum to hang out with the dinosaurs. I did not want this confusion of bone and skin, did not want what was on the inside of me to shift and show up on the outside. I did not want to be a walking skeleton.

When I was eleven years old, I began to disappear. I had this idea that starvation could save me because the more I disappeared, the less I could be found. And the less I weighed, the more I disappeared. Circular logic, my therapists told me. But circles made a lot more sense and lacked the sharp edges that so intimidated me in math class. The thing that no one tells you is that eating disorders devour you. You're not in charge anymore. At first, that kind of freedom is reassuring, but later it becomes terrifying.

When an eating disorder hits the five year mark, doctors will tell you that it is chronic. I am at the fifteen year mark now. This thing has grown in tandem with me, and I with it. My adolescence was a frenzy of avoiding family dinners and punishing myself when I took what I perceived to be more than my share. Over time, anorexia has become a parasite that I am no longer willing to host. The symbiosis has lost its' appeal.

I don't want to disappear anymore - I want to be seen.

Not the me that I am when I am starving, nor the woman from the panic attack that landed me in the emergency room last week, but whoever is underneath all of that. I've often wondered who I would be if I am not starving, and that is a thought that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me. Thrills because if I was not starving, I could stop chasing skeletons. Terrifies because I don't know who I would be without it. After twenty-seven years of familiarity, I might not recognize the healthy version of me. Taking that big of a risk is like walking off a cliff and hoping the wind will catch you. A full recovery requires faith that you will still be someone you like once you get better.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥ something happened ♥

something happened

frecklestars — Thu, 17 May 2012 22:40:38 GMT

LJ idol week 28: walking on eggshells

museums of dying moths
or the stench of something rotten
rush forward,
overwhelming

something      happened

it's scrawled in journals
with red marker slashes,
slopped across pages
and the story it paints
spreads like mold,
cancelling the sweet self
who once existed

I remember
in flashes,
in swathes of pandemic
   spreading blame like sickness
mom was telling me
something,
speaking in the rhythm of ambulance lights
saying that he
that what he did
was not my fault

that thing,
pus-filled screeches,
stole my body,
took things
that no woman should have to wonder
how they were lost

something      happened
and I will not tell you
the whole secret
because that would be too much truth;
I walk on eggshells
so I won't ever have to face the silences within me.

Sleeping Beauty was raped too,
but mothers don't tell their children
that story.
(As if by omitting that unpleasant detail,
they will protect their children from possibility.)

In college, I avoided lectures on date rape,
afraid that they would brand me red
in shades of bruises,
as though people might be able to tell
what had happened to me.

At first, when I opened my mouth
to break the silences that had stretched
too long,
my hands fluttered like trapped birds.
Every time I talked about it,
I expected the ground I walked on to split with grief,
the chair to cave in, the eyes to turn away.
But no one has broken
under the weight of my secrets -
they are still with listening.

Later,
I burned any journal pages with red slashes,
hoping to release the insistent wraiths.
But those letters are still
etched on my insides.

They talk about survivor's guilt,
and I imagine his lack of it.
I imagine how
those twenty-three minutes and sixteen seconds
were only an extended coffee break to him -
they don't paint nightmares on his eyelids,
two a.m. screams on his lips.
They don't matter to him after thirteen years,
probably didn't matter after a single year.
On the other hand, those twenty-three minutes and sixteen seconds
defined me for a decade
until I learned not to care
about how many eggshells I had to crush
to break that deadly silence.

One in six women are sexually assaulted in their lifetimes. This poem is dedicated to them in hopes that their unending asskicking survivor strength may continue. Project Unbreakable is an amazing series of photographs that provides a space for survivors to tell their stories. That remarkable project was the inspiration for this poem.

I am ever grateful to milk_and_glass & vorsaga for being my beta readers.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥ hanky panky in the redwoods ♥

week 27 vote

frecklestars — Tue, 15 May 2012 16:40:19 GMT

An extra-speedy poll this week, b/c this contest is meant to kill all of us. (Kidding. Kind of.) At least we don't have to anticipate/bite our nails/freak out for too long. This week, I particularly loved:

alycewilson
frecklestars
jacq22
kickthehobbit
milk_and_glass
notodette
porn_this_way

I'd be much obliged if you'd go vote for me and other talented writers you enjoyed here, by tomorrow (yikes!) the 16th at 8 p.m. EST. Now I think I'll go and get some actual work done instead of hitting refresh on the poll every fifteen seconds...

hanky panky in the redwoods

frecklestars — Mon, 14 May 2012 22:38:19 GMT

LJ Idol week 27: once upon a time

I went to college where hippies weren't confined to textbook pages. As you walked to class, you were fairly likely to see people smeared with purple paint dancing naked in the meadow in broad daylight. Where a family of raccoons that wanted your all-natural organic flavored-with-elderberry-syrup granola bar¹ would ambush you black-ops style as you fiddle with your iPod. The dorm walls echo with the ghosts of parties past.

College was a beginning, my own once upon a time, dotted with naked runs in the rain, crowds of silent masked people holding up signs that say "We are all cyborgs", and white rabbits that beg you to follow them. College is what made me brave enough to wear my hair in a mohawk for graduation. It is how I learned to speak up even when I am terrified. It is also why I'm weird. But given my surroundings, I wasn't so unusual.

UC Santa Cruz was built in the 1960s, and already had its' share of ghosts, elves, and campus legends that grew like dandelions. Most of the students knew that redwoods grow in circles. Some of those hidden circles have been transformed into elf dens, with roofs of thatched branches. You can only find them if you have a guide. When you walk in, you're supposed to hold your breath and make a wish. Most people bring offerings: a poem, a dance, or even a string of Mardi Gras beads. If you bring a gift, you're allowed to take one with you when you leave. The dens are slices of magic in an otherwise mundane place because even though it's an old-growth redwood forest, it still feels newer and less haunted than Massachusetts woods.

They say the Boneyard was where the mountain lions brought their kills, so the ground was littered with bones, bleached white with years. It was just next to the largest community of elf dens, though they tore it down to make room for a new dorm. And then there is Tree 9, the old giant of a redwood, who has overseen drum circles at the full moon and flying girls who climb its' branches to test gravity's patience. There's also the Porter Squiggle (affectionately known as the flying IUD to some older students), for which you receive 1000 sex points if you manage some undercover hanky panky on top of it².

Santa Cruz was a place I was eager to get away from when I moved to Massachusetts four years ago, but it still has a good grip on my heartstrings. I think we're all eager to escape our origins, because they remind us of who we used to be and we only want to be remembered as our New and Improved Selves™. But whenever I smell the ocean or walk in the woods or hear a didgeridoo, I cannot help but think of Santa Cruz. And now, as an alum, I wonder how many sex points I'd get if I make the trek all the way back to that patchouli-scented place.

1 If you weren't a hippie before you came here, you will be after.
2 It was never clear what exactly sex points were, only that they existed and that they were a desirable thing.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥ becoming Cirsea ♥

go & vote! right this second!

frecklestars — Tue, 08 May 2012 13:00:00 GMT

We're about to reach the Top 40(!) Another day, another milestone. There were some seriously amazing entries this week, and I wanted to give my vote choices below:

baxaphobia
drjeff
frecklestars
kickthehobbit
milk_and_glass
notodette
porn_this_way
whipchick

Voting ends this Thursday at 9 p.m. EST. Go vote here, do it now! Good luck all. <3

Note to LJ Idol pantheon: please be extra kind to me this week. I really would love to make Top 40. Or Top 20. *drool*

becoming Cirsea

frecklestars — Sun, 06 May 2012 02:53:42 GMT

LJ Idol week 26: sated

Whenever I go to Hawaii, my skin turns a delightful shade of blue. Literally. For no apparent reason. I visit Maui with my parents most summers and I turn blue every time. Especially my legs. I can't figure out what causes it, but I'm not imagining it. By the time we land in San Francisco again, my legs are a delicate shade of lapis. Or maybe it's a mild turquoise. A balmy ultramarine perhaps. It's faint enough that you could almost mistake it for a shadow if you didn't know it was there.

The moon is fat and gold, hanging low overhead and reflecting brilliantly in the lake. It is a traitor's moon, ripe fruit waiting to burst. When our hands meet, the ground shakes, even though this is far from earthquake country. My mouth is full of magic, conjuring words that will call our desire into being. But being so far from the ocean is killing me. My heart is forgetting how to beat without the steady susurrant rhythm of the tides.

I grew up thinking I was a mermaid. I loved to be in the water, though I wasn't all that interested in swimming class. I just wanted to be surrounded by water, pushed by the current, dancing without gravity. In the pool, I would float close to the lanes, so the whoosh of adult swimmers passing would mimic the tides. I have always been close to the water, the ocean in particular. Almost every picture I drew had water in it. Cerulean was my favorite crayon as a child: for every fresh box I got, the cerulean one wore out first.

You weren't startled by me popping out of the cattails, though you did stare for longer than is polite. My hair dripped over my breasts and onto my dress. You had never met one of us before, so you did not sense the danger. I didn't warn you either. I had seen you before: there had been picnics on the banks of the river and I had watched from the reeds. Your skin is pink, ripe with possibilities, and I couldn't resist.

I don't live close to the ocean anymore. I can swim in the river, but it's not enough to sate my desire to be in the water. So I try to replace the lack of ocean in other ways. When I moved three years ago, I chose a place that had azure walls in the bedroom. The sheets on my bed are deep dark cobalt and the quilt is a sapphire-teal. There are other things too, unexpected magic that has to do with the sea. A few months ago, I passed an indigo jeep with a license plate that said "cirsea". The name resonated with me, the way Francesca Lia Block might have felt when she saw that pink cadillac with "Weetzie" on the license plate. I always wanted to be a Greek myth come to life, a water witch.

If I were an ondine, I wouldn't want to bear your child; the sea is all I need. They say I am a wicked girl. There is a storm of wanting in my chest. Desire flows with the tides that also guide my heartbeat. They say I need a child to gain a soul. I have a heart though, so I don't see why I need a soul. It won't make me any more real. I could never get enough of the ocean though. You, I can live without.

A poem about ondines by yours truly (sorry, friends only)
"Ondine" by Ravel, as played by Cheryl Shantz
Poem by Mary Barnard

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥

of the earth

frecklestars — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 21:54:05 GMT

LJ Idol week 25: closer (intersection week with lawchicky, whose entry on cesspools may be found here)

The midnight creek is full of stars, mirroring a sky that I do not yet know intimately. I grew up with the stars that you can see from the city. City stars are nestled among rosy clouds and low-flying planes. Here, in this wild silence, there are unfamiliar constellations. The trees sound like animals and the animals sound like children. There is always something moving in the dark. This could never be a haunted place though; it is too full of joy.

The last time I went camping, I was probably nine or ten years old. I grew up in the high desert of New Mexico and we went camping at least once a summer. I remember nights full of cicadas and sleeping bags that smelled like creosote. I remember feeling like I could hear god in the crackle of the campfire. At ten years old, I couldn't express such immensity of feeling, but I could write stories about it. (The above is a slightly adapted excerpt from one of those stories.) I'm going camping again this August for a week, with a fantastically fierce bunch of ladies. Even though I have a tendency to over-hype things, I think this will be one of those life-changing experiences.

As a self-professed city girl, I don't know exactly how I got talked into this. One of my friends emailed me a couple months ago when I was feeling particularly low and said "I know what you need...". The Michigan Womyn's Music Festival was her solution to my depression and the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. Women-only spaces have often appealed to me (though I vehemently do NOT support trans-exclusion policies). And women-only space + beautiful forest + strong potential for a spiritual experience? Sign me the hell up! I expect the camping bit to require some adjustment on my part, but it's hard work that will have enormous benefits.

Today is Beltaine, one of the major sabbats. Thirteen years ago today, I declared myself a witch before the Goddess. Within that circle of candles, I became closer to the earth. Even though I was sitting on a driveway in the middle of California suburbia, I felt a deep connection to this planet. This is what belief has the power to do: it can transcend place and remind you of your deepest roots. It can bring you closer to whatever goddess or god you believe in. Even when you are sitting on a slab of concrete, you can still remember what bare earth feels like under your feet. You can still hear the trees talking.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥

voting for week 24

frecklestars — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 13:44:15 GMT

We are the Top 50!!! This is ~~kind of~~ super-duper-awesome-and-amazing. I am incredibly flattered that I've made it this far, especially with the likes of the folks who have also made it. In particular, may I suggest you vote for the following this week:

alleyalligator (vampires and motherhood - brilliant combo! entry here)
ellakite (on boldly blowing shit up like it has never been blown up before)
frecklestars (if you haven't read it by now, I babbled about ballon & ballet this week)
java_fiend (what are you good at? entry here)
jem0000000 (clumsiness 101 or how to win friends & break bones)
notodette (on smoking)
milk_and_glass (the sea widow's prayer)
whipchick (a particularly superb entry on how "can't" is "won't" and "won't" means pushups)

Voting ends on the 26th at 9 p.m. EST. If you'd like to vote - and you should b/c we all want your support - you should definitely click here. Good luck all!

searching for ballon

frecklestars — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 16:42:39 GMT

LJ Idol week 24: in your wheelhouse

At six years old, like many little girls, I wanted to be a ballerina. By then I had already been taking ballet for two years. I loved my black leotard that dipped low in the back, my dainty pink tights and shoes. They made me feel graceful, like a grown-up lady. My favorite center combination was to do a series of piqué turns. I danced wherever I could: in my room, in the backyard under the cottonwood trees, at recess on the hard-packed dirt. My mother told me that I was dancing even in the womb, and that I had kept her awake at night with all my kicking and tumbling.

At sixteen years old, I was already in retirement. When I turned twelve, my ballet instructor gave me an ultimatum: be a hundred pounds or less, or stop dancing. At 120 pounds, I was already near-skeletal. You could count each one of my ribs and my collarbones looked like hangers. The knobs in my shoulders stuck out and when I was nervous, I would finger my hip bones like worry stones. I was simply built denser than the other ballerinas, and my teacher did not understand that. I used to wear my old pointe shoes to high school; they were like a painful pink satin security blanket, a reminder of what I was missing.

At twenty-six years old, I have not danced in a studio in over a decade. I miss it ferociously. Tomorrow I'm going to sit in on a contemporary/lyrical class, a dance form I have not yet tried. Over the years, I have explored ballet, tap, jazz, modern, bellydance, and a brief if slightly disastrous flirtation with tango. I still dance: battement frappés in line at the grocery store, pas de chats while I'm brainstorming papers, kick-ball-changes when I'm sick of grading. But lately, especially with recent frustrations in circus, all I want is a smooth wood floor and miles of mirrors and music so loud my heartbeat changes to match.

Dance is the place where I feel most at home. Despite all the sprained ankles, all the bloody toes, the endured insults, I am still a dancer. I'm still a sucker for bad dance movies and there's a line in Center Stage that really suits me lately: "I'm not dancing for them anymore; I'm dancing for me." In the glare of the spotlight, at the peak of a leap, I find my wheelhouse. My life has been steered by dance.

There is always a treasured moment while dancing in which I am weightless, dangerous like a force of nature, when I am startled out of myself. The aching in my calves from so many relevés disappears. There is only the music and my body in a symbiotic act of creation. Besides circus, this is the other way I have learned to fly. They call this moment ballon, which makes the dancer appear as though pausing in midair. When I finish, I'm panting and usually have to collapse for about twenty minutes. But for that weightless moment, nothing can touch me. It's the sweetest spot in the world.

(This video is a good illustration of what ballon feels like: the world slows as the moment crystallizes. The first time I felt this was the second I realized I could not live without dancing.)

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥

Einstein I am not

frecklestars — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 03:01:23 GMT

LJ idol week 23: the weak force

Sometimes we need something, even if we don't understand why we need it; we just know we do. And sometimes these things that we don't understand are delightful in their abstruseness.

The earth needs the sun. So do we. Even those of you who don't have seasonal affective disorder (SAD), which basically means melancholia that arises from a lack of sunlight, couldn't imagine life without the sun. There is something called "the weak force" that keeps the sun burning. I don't understand how it works exactly, but I know it's there. Kind of like how I don't understand why my brain automatically thinks "Wake up time!" at 5 a.m. in the summer and 7 a.m. in the winter. It just...does.

I'll be the first to admit that I don't understand some science. I used to be a biology major, but after a year of being told I wasn't good enough that culminated in coming down with chicken pox a month shy of my nineteenth birthday, I switched to sociology. Instead of thinking in beakers and chemical reactions and cells, now I think in behavior patterns and institutional racism and a spectrum of gender/sexualities. This is not a bad thing - it doesn't mean I'm dumber than I would've been had I continued with biology. It just means that my brain works differently now and science is largely a beautiful mystery to me.

Science can be made into art and vice versa*. I sometimes forget this when I vehemently insist that sociology is an art not a science. In these moments, I think of science as rigid and unforgiving, with rules you cannot break, something that is ugly and un-lyrical in its' language. Except this isn't true. A lot of rules can be bent or even broken. And think about the words "neuroblastoma", "mitochondrial", "ergodicity", "crystalline". Say them out loud. Let your tongue dance them out. Think about the poetry of a black hole or an exploding star, the chromatic mystery of nebulas. After all of this, who would dare suggest that science isn't lovely and largely incomprehensible to most of us?

When we understand something, we experience a moment of peace and security that our knowledge has expanded just a teensy bit more. When we don't, we have two choices: we can either react with fear, or we can react with awe. We can resent needing something we don't understand, or we can rejoice in its' existence. I understand that the sun will most likely not stop burning during my lifetime. I understand that gravity is responsible for making me fall when I don't hold on tight enough during circus. I do not understand the weak force, but I understand that it is important, and that in its' inscrutability it is magnificent.

* I present the following evidence that art and science are related:
Tim Fowler's graphic representation of "the weak force"
Tom Shannon's pendulum paintings
Why Science Needs to Make Space for the Arts

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥

not a needle but a drink

frecklestars — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 00:46:55 GMT

LJ idol week 22: the straw that stirs the drink (partnered with the lovely & very talented cemetaria)

Before Briar Rose was torn up by the roots, she attended every party, dancing with the other princesses and lighting up the hall. You know the sort: the girl that makes the rest of us invisible. You turn pale with fear at the thought that you might remain unseen forever, so you buy push-up bras and anti-aging creams and enough shades of lipstick to paint an entire greenhouse into spring. You shiver when you see women who make birds fall silent, or women who look otherworldly when they're standing in the middle of the grocery store. You know this fear, but you would never admit it.

We have stories in common with these women who haunt us. And like our own stories, fairy tales intersect too: Cinderella stole Snow White's lovers, Thumbelina used to laugh unkindly at Ariel's emerald tail, Beauty cut off Rapunzel's hair while she was sleeping. They watched each other out of the corner of their eyes, each wondering who would be remembered as the fairest of them all. Briar usually won and so the other princesses started to plot.

They befriended witches who had never been beautiful and held enough bitterness in their breasts to stir a potent storm in anyone who crossed them. The princesses wanted Briar to suffer. They had laughed when Briar said the word "rape", told her she shouldn't have drunk quite so much or maybe next time she shouldn't dress like that. Briar kept waking up in unfamiliar beds, remembering only that there had been a drink. Maybe It had tasted a little funny, but the old motorcycle dyke she had been talking to at closing time had such good stories that the taste of the drink was the last thing on her mind.

Briar glowed like the dawn her father had wanted to name her after - Aurora - but her mother had insisted on Briar. She was a prickly little child, forever tearing the pages out of books and chasing her father's horses. She grew up though, blossomed so that one could resist watching her as her skin lit the clubs. Briar didn't notice their eyes on her anymore - she was used to it. So she never saw the knot of beautiful women glaring, chanting, waiting like lions in tight leather skirts.

The hands that mixed the drink were a mystery as they stirred the straw, disturbing the ice cubes that resembled skulls if you saw them in the right light. Jealousy illuminated the drink, an emotion powerful enough to suck the beauty from anyone's bones. The other women, with their hunter's eyes, were eager as they watched Briar expose her pretty neck and close her eyes with the pleasure of a well-mixed cocktail.

The next morning, Briar didn't wake. Her skin had turned cold but still glittered, and her beauty had flown out through her mouth, infecting others. Now a sleeping beast instead of a beauty, her skin sparked green and gold, reminiscent of the drink she could not remember. There were too many men, and because she was so beautiful they all wanted to possess her. So they took her, in strips and scraps, one tearing a dainty braid from her head as a souvenir. They left her filthy, but still she glowed.

The other princesses paid the witches to slip Jealousy into Briar's drink, and they paid the princes to rip open Briar's heart with their teeth. The princesses never thought about what might happen to them after parties; they just wanted to be the prettiest. By the time someone thought to write their stories, it had been long enough that the true sequence of events had been forgotten.

This is how all fairy tale princesses became beautiful; they stole their beauty and blamed it on the witches.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥

favorites from Idol week 21

frecklestars — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 14:32:14 GMT

I admit that I've been a bit lax about voting recommendations and commenting on entries. To my fellow contestants: my apologies. This week, however, was The Intersection (a.k.a. doom by teams). We had to pair up with one other contestant and write entries that intersected somehow. I was fortunate enough to pair with the very talented whirlgig. We both wrote about San Francisco, me as a California native, her as a tourist who fell in love with the place (because, really, who could resist?). I feel very blessed to have had the opportunity to work with her and up until I got her message had been considering working alone (since I don't play well with others). I think everything worked out pretty beautifully this week, unexpectedly so.

My especial favorites from this week:
cemetaria
dblicher
everywordiwrite
milk_and_glass
notodette
rattsu
vaudy

(whirlgig and myself are of course also on that list, but it felt a bit redundant to put us on there.)

Now if only the poll works out just as beautifully! Since we're nearing the top 50, we're all in one tribe now, so you should go vote for the most fabulous among us here. Votes due by Thursday April 5 at 9 p.m. EST. And may the odds be ever in my your favor!

San Francisco's smile

frecklestars — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 13:48:55 GMT

LJ idol week 21: bridge (intersection week, whirlgig is my other half)

The Golden Gate bridge is supposed to be the heart of San Francisco, but I disagree. That sunset orange megalith is a cathedral, one that demands I throw back my head and open my arms each time I pass under one of the towers. There is a moment of silence as you pass under, a change that you can almost feel at the edge of your consciousness. A sense of entry. I close my eyes and toss wishes to the gently nodding sea. San Francisco pets the sea in her sleep, stroking it like a giant cat that purrs in susurrant tides. 101 and 280 are twin spines of traffic, slowly tracing her curves.

California is in my blood, that dusk blue cold Pacific blood that somehow tastes like honey and flows like joy. I grew up here, as a third generation Angelino with a northern California heart. The hills are a tawny golden-brown, like the flanks of a lion, and the fog seeps into your bones on creeping chilly feet. These sewer grates and slanted streets, the wild parrots on Telegraph Hill and the artist's palette of townhouses...these things sink into your skin. The fog forms ink, which slowly sketches a map of the city and imprints it on your body. You cannot forget this place.

San Francisco is a wild woman, California poppies for a crown, and she is always dancing. Her over-friendly buildings raise rusty fire-escape fingers and pretend to be New York City, but she isn't fooling anyone. Her dresses are ribbons and tie-dye. Her midnight ocean is teasing the edges of her city-lights-pink hair. Her doors are silent mouths, held stiff and stitched shut at night with ornate iron gates. She keeps plants as pets on her kitchen windowsill, sings to make them strong. San Francisco greets her city-sisters with reckless abandon.

Austin, the baby of the family, is a shy cowgirl dyke advocating for change, wishing desperately she could be San Francisco when she grows up. Albuquerque is all thirsty blue sky and cloud earrings and smells like brushfires and desert sunsets. London, the eldest sister, gets lost in museums and reads her history in graveyards, along the banks of the Thames. And Santa Cruz, just an hour south of San Francisco, guarded by silent redwoods in capes of fog, wears hand-woven grass dresses and only closes her magnetic ocean eyes when even the most damaged have fallen asleep.

With each new neighborhood in San Francisco, there is an excuse to reinvent yourself. Neon green peace signs for eyes in the Haight, mocha mouths and cinnamon skin in the Mission, glittered wings and question mark tattoos in the Castro. The Sunset district sleeps in fog and sun is a stranger there. Corners at midnight got to know the Tenderloin, and the Presidio is cranky hummingbird-girls who start screeching if you get too close. If these quirky neighborhoods and labyrinth streets and bookshops built on promises are San Francisco's heart, then the bridge is her smile.

(The idea of personifying cities as women was inspired by Francesca Lia Block's wonderful writing. Other cities that have a place in my heart have also become women for me, including: Austin, Texas; Albuquerque, New Mexico; London, England; and Santa Cruz, California.)

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥

how to age gracefully

frecklestars — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 22:44:34 GMT

LJ idol week 20: open topic

When I am a mad old woman,
I will cover the walls with writing,
recording the whisperings of my books
that rise like an inky smoke from the shelves.
Words will splash the walls
and though the landlord will try to paint over them,
those fables and fairytales will still glow through.

The neighborhood children will hear the whispers,
dare each other to pick the peonies from the witch's garden
that are supposed to grant wishes.
They will tremble on my porch
and, if caught, they will sit straight and silent
until I offer them a slice of lavender-honey pie.

When I am a mad old woman,
I will speak to my cat,
howl at the dark of the moon,
spit snakes when I am angry.

I will not go quietly,
will insist on wearing tempestuous colors
and sternly tell people that my wrinkles
are character lines.
Shouting,
my false teeth making escapes
from time to time.

When I am a mad old woman,
I will curl into armchairs
with books older than I -
seeking the company of elder witches.
My love affairs with libraries
will be legendary.

I will make them uncomfortable
with my ravings about how
I was young and lovely once too,
a cloud of dark hair kept shaved
and brown eyes that turned a violent violet
in passionate moments.

When I am a mad old woman,
I will not stop living.
There will be a garden of stories
growing on my body -
spring inks and shades of winter loss.
My skin will speak to them
long after my lips have stopped moving.

They will be unable to frighten me
into a polite grandmother's silence.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥

betrayal by choice

frecklestars — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 12:04:53 GMT

LJ idol week 19: et tu, Brute?

She told me I had to choose: my boyfriend or her. Boyfriend or best friend. Sex and champagne on New Years, or sleepovers and dress-up. It was the impossible choice. I felt like I was being asked whether I wanted to grow up or stay a little girl. Sierra and I had become best friends in seventh grade when she told me that her mom wasn't really on vacation; she was in rehab. After that, it was two sides of one coin. We finished each others' sentences, we climbed trees to read books together, and we formed this special little clique of two within a larger group of friends.

We read Julius Caesar that year. In an English class where passing around a tin full of ecstasy while the teacher looked the other way* was the norm, you can imagine there weren't very many people excited about Shakespeare. Our teacher assigned roles. I was chosen to read Caesar's lines, because I was the strongest reader in the class. Then, in a supreme stroke of irony, our teacher assigned Sierra the role of Brutus. I buried my face in the book, an abused copy of Shakespeare, and started reading my lines. Most of the other students delivered their lines dispassionately, tracing patterns with their fingers to combat their boredom. I read mine with the intensity of someone who has been recently betrayed.

I went against every advice column I'd ever read and picked the boyfriend. In the end, it came down to the question "What kind of friend makes you choose between people you love?" And the answer I kept coming back to was "Not the kind of friend I want." I made my decision and was suddenly a pariah. Nobody talked to me. I finished out senior year of high school eating lunches alone in a classroom, hanging out with the teachers whenever I could. In the hallways, I stared at the ceiling to avoid seeing the whisperers. But I could still hear them, accusing me of being everything from a slut to a witch to a dyke. I soldiered on, pretending I was an emperor and if I wanted, I could order their deaths. Or at least their public humiliation.

When I reached the line, "Et tu, Brute?" I looked straight at Sierra. It was the first time I'd looked up all period, and the energy in the room shifted. Some of the other students started fidgeting. Sierra glanced up from her book and caught my gaze. She had the grace to look away first. I read her shame in the way she tilted her head down, the way she never looked at me thereafter. Even though we started speaking again halfway through college, I don't think forgiveness was ever an option for me. I have a tendency to remember things too clearly. I remember who stuck the first knife in my back. The first cut, as they say, is the deepest.

*

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥

voting in week 18

frecklestars — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 14:07:05 GMT

As a fabulous drag queen I know says when things get exciting, "Man on man!" Not only did we all have to write an entry this week inspired by another current contestant in LJ idol, it's now also a contestant-only vote.

Eep.

This means that while there's no campaigning about who my friends outside the competition should vote for, I still think it's important to acknowledge my favorites for this week. Credit where credit's due and all that.

alycewilson
beldarzfixon
caile
dakotawitch
faerie_spark
frecklestars
lrig_rorrim
milk_and_glass
rumplebuttkins
whipchick

Particular props go to rumplebuttkins, who wrote a little something about every single current contestant. Way to show up the rest of us slackers who only wrote about one or two! ;)

Now a plea to the universe in general: thank you for letting me make it to the Top 100. I feel so blessed. The other contestants have put me in a perpetual state of awe. Now please please please universe, don't let me get voted off this week. Contestant-only votes terrify me almost more than spiders.

fairytale-maker

frecklestars — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 18:16:42 GMT

LJ idol week 18: pick a current idol contestant & use them as inspiration for your entry.

I picture your hands first. Long, slightly knobbly fingers, like twigs from winter birch trees. I imagine that we are the same shade of pale. Between the two of us, you are the daintier one; your heart is pale daisies and shy ghost tulips. Mine is purple thistles and pink lemonade peonies. The way this is going, we could be Rose White and Rose Red.

You are the type of girl to stretch out on graves, singing to tombstones, always thinking of what's beneath your feet. I dream of being elbow-deep in sky, drinking that high-elevation blue concoction, with frothy white clouds on the rim of the glass. You keep us grounded, even though you are the fairytale-maker. Your words smell like rich earth, thick as cake. Occasionally you stop in the middle of a story, tell me to close my eyes and write the next sentence. But even though it's obvious our stories are sisters, they are different.

Perhaps you have tattoos of stars, the way I have constellations of freckles. You're Thursday's child, with far to go, and I am Friday's child, loving and giving. Though to tell the truth, I think those are reversed. Rose White is the one full of love; Rose Red is the one that breaks more than she creates. Even though we don't know each other, I think we are twinned dreamers, girls who dream in past tense but still look forward to dawn.

The author wishes to remind her readers that any resemblance to a real person or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. And unexpectedly lucky, given that this is a highly fictionalized account of milk_and_glass, who may be very confused by this whole thing. I picked her because her entries read like stories from my own heart.

♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥

week 17 voting

frecklestars — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 16:24:39 GMT

Community-only vote this week! And the bottom FIVE from each tribe are getting eliminated this week! Therefore, if you love me, you should join the community and ~~save~~ vote for me! Please? *whimper*

Tribe 1
cheshire23 (advice to dimensional travelers)
frecklestars (on emotional idiocy)
notodette (how republicans are stabbing themselves)
thaliontholwen (backlash against teachers)

Tribe 2
copyright1983 (scrabble champion Dave)
dakotawitch (marital therapy)
dslartoo (control in martial arts training)
michikatinski (what violence cannot take)
minnesattva (proving you're queer)
porn_this_way (the best sarcastic rant about word usage ever...now with pictures!)

Votes are due this Thursday, the eighth, at 9 p.m. EST. That's tomorrow, which means get thee to the voting booth!