Women Who Read

Let's talk about women who read for a moment, shall we? Let's talk about this pompous archetype for women which has permeated Western culture based on some glorified version of Sense and Sensibility characters mixed with infamous Disney Belle beauty (note: she is my favorite Disney character, so not too much hate going here, but it dovetails into my point).
Let's discuss the objectification of women who are book-worms: pretty women lost inside the pages of a book. Instead of the ever popular sexually mature Jezebel or the fetishization of the pure virgin character, here we have the sapiosexual woman, the attraction to the mind. Which is great and all, until it's becomes this intensified focus point. These archetypes place women on pedestals where it's her job to make life more interesting for the man. Only she can fulfill his life with her long winded narrative on Austin, musings over Emerson, dreary eyed ruminations over Byron. Only she can fill the intellectual void because she is superior to all women. She reads thus it is only she who can truly comprehend the universe and its mysteries. Her grammar is the epitome of perfection, thus only she can make a man's heart blossom with passion and love. Why? Well, she's read about it. So of course she knows.
Her mind has become some gross fetish; the woman becomes the books she reads and the extensiveness of her vocabulary. Let's not forget, though, her purpose is too still be beautiful, her mind must match her face. She's the rare beauty hiding behind the Emersonian discourse, wind swept and niavely unaware of her own beauty. She is not the doughy librarian in the corner of the coffee shop. Oh no. Our woman who reads is gorgeous and classy and speaks with ease about the merit of Aesop's fables like the rest of discuss the weather with awkward strangers at the bus stop. She is Audrey Hepburn, but with a book instead of Tiffany diamonds. Do you see my point yet? This archetype is not about a woman's personal intelligence so much as her ability to fulfill a man's need for meaningful conversation. Or her ability to make life interesting. You talk about her as being this savoir from a humdrum life. Maybe the man has a low opinion of himself, and well, quite frankly, a girl who reads isn't going to save you from that. I can continue with the various scenarios and exceptions because that's the way humans are. Archetypes don't work because humans, in general, are all different. Unlike Wonder Woman, we were not all born from clay and lightening. I know, I'm just as upset as you are.
Back onto the woman who reads. I'm so exhausted of hearing about the magnanimous woman who reads her many books. These shy, superior women which hold so much sway over men's hearts. Maybe these woman should not be defined. Maybe her books should not swarm her identity as a person. I can assure you, she does more than read. She is not your savoir, she may or may not make your life better. She may lead you on or be your soulmate. The fact that she reads does not make her suitable for everyone. Why does her reading give her higher expectations? You mean, a woman might just want eqaulity, intelligent conversations, careers, and god knows what else, even if she doesn't read? Why yes, she does. Because she's human. Reading doesn't give women this newfangled desire for full, meaningful lives. Women want that because they are human. I'm sure there are plenty of moderately intelligent women who want the same thing. And plenty of boring women who want that. And hideous women who want Prince Charming. Why are we not talking about those women? Why does a woman who reads deserve this august repuation as the answer to all men's questions? Why does a woman who reads become more superior to one who doesn't?
But to move away from the woman for a moment. Can we talk about men? Can we talk about the other half of the equation here? What about men who read ? Where is the hype about them? Why do men need to grovel at the feet of women who read like they are the reincarnation of Minerva come to rescue them from a world of complacency and bordeom? I think not! Women are not savoirs. Just because she reads does not give her magical ability to lift up sad men, or any man, into this pillowy world of sunshine and phenamonal rhetoric. Think again. Men don't need women to have fulfilling lives. News flash! Women don't either. So stop playing this game of archetypes like one is better than the other.
I am a woman who reads. Frequently. I don't fit into this archetype, and well, any woman who thinks she does is probably wrong. That was a great discussion on the cyclical themes in Emerson's essays, sorry honey but we still won't be worshipping you like you are Athena. I love to read. I love to lose myself into the pages of book and smell the fresh glue keeping the binding together. But I am more than the books I read. I am woman because I read. I am a woman because I dance to Lady Gaga. Why not love a woman who dances to Lady Gaga? Why not love a woman because she's a person and she has a myriad of likes and dislikes. Be a woman because you want to be a woman. Be a woman because you love who you are. Love women who love themselves and like to read and dance and wear dresses and some days wear combat boots. Don't love archetypes because archetypes don't really exist. Love women because they exist as they are. I am a woman who reads, constantly, but not in public because I'd rather meet new people and I never wear matching socks.
Becuase matching socks are lame. Like archetypes. Catch my drift?

Mistakes

Ah, the essence of youth. That mindset that the world is still open to you, and mistakes can't completely alter the path you desire your life to follow. It's a heady elixir I must say, thinking that I can forget all my past mistakes, still make disasterously large new ones and still be the person I want to be. I guess that's the most damaging aspect to making mistakes, especially in our youth. We're expected to make them, but no one ever tells you how different they make you. No one sits you down to explain that after you make this decision which ends up being a mistake, how the person you were vanishes and this new one appears, and you start to question your life, your mind, your style, your hair.Literally everything comes into question. It irrevocably changes you, sometimes on the outside, but mostly on the inside.
I know many will glorify mistakes - you tried! you failed! but at least you have the experience! - which is great. You have the experience. You have a experience, which probably falls in line with a long list of experiences. Because life is all about the experiences we have, isn't it? So, where do mistakes fall on this list? Are they good? Bad? Maybe ambivilent? Can we really say? I think the only definite anwer is that our mistakes change us. They push along new paths in life, sometimes they leave us with bruises, sometimes they leave us a little wiser. But that's the trouble with youth, is we walk into these mistakes, feeling invicible, and then these mistakes crack us. They change us, and we don't know how to cope.
Especially now, the years of our twenties are slippery, we need to find ourselves in a world we are little prepared for, and mistakes chip away at our armor. We crave success and beauty and power and wisdom, but on the inside, we are fragile and nervous. And boast about our lack of fear, "what can a mistake do?" well for one, a financial mistake can make you homeless, which really screws up your life. Maybe an emotional mistake leaves you feeling vulnerable, makes you cringe and cry on the inside. Those are the worst, I think. When you wish you knew you were making the biggest mistake of your life, but didn't. These are the times that hurt the most. They make you question who you are, your identity. They alter the way you see the world, the way you see people.
This is a harsher way to view mistakes, but let's be honest, not all mistakes are life altering. But I think its important to realize that our mistakes shape us, they mold us, and they change us. They are more than just obstacles or events to fix. Sometimes, mistakes are the books that give us wisdom, sometimes they are the broken bones that make us stronger, and sometimes they are the missing road signs that send us in a completely new direction.

So life handed me all these lemons; lemonade anyone?

Alright, that's totally a long and unnecessary title. But I've always wanted to  use that cliche little saying and well, here we go. Today is the absolute best day for this. So prepare yourselves oh-readers-of-my-blog, for the rant of the week. Hopefully this will not become a staple in my blog, but who knows?
I guess the best place to start is how my imbecilic government causes me much greif and anxiety. Which isn't good because I give myself enough anxiety already. And why, pray tell, are they doing that? Because the Republicans are whiny old white men (and Michelle Bachman) having a temper tantrum over a law that passed and was constitutionalized. That's not the point of this post, but I could go on for hours about my frustration over my government. Before you say something along the lines of 'well you do have control over your government, you need to vote'. I did vote. I do vote. But Congressmen and women have this particular nasty habit of doing what they please which usually means doing something that benefits themselves.
Moving on.
I am a federal worker, but I use the term 'worker' lightly in this situaion. I receive an allowance from the government (I know it makes me sound like I'm five and I get money for chores, but that's the official term for it). But since the service I conduct for my community of Portland, ME is not considered essentail (my god, helping the poor, why that's the last essential thing we can think of said every Republican ever), I've been thrown of the bandwagon of paid federal employees. But don't worry, the secretaries are still being paid in the White House. Phew, I was real worried about them. Anyway, I'm an AmeriCorps member and I work to held build capacity for a non-profit organization that helps the poor and needy. And all the other AmeriCorps members do service similar to mine. And we're not getting paid. Fantastic. So that means I have no money for food, for rent, for utilities. We have no other means of income either. I know I am not the only with this problem, and many, many others have situations worse than mine. That doesn't mean I won't be stressing out over this, or worrying non-stop. My mom - bless her - sent me up packages full of non perishable food items. I don't think I was ever so relieved to see Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in my life.
That's really the biggest worry on my plate. I have very little wiggle room when it comes to money. I didn't sign up for this nonense. I enjoy helping people, I love the work I do here at CCM, but I don't think I can continue this if the government doesn't get its act together and fix this. I barely have enough money to buy food for myself. I can't pay any of my bills. And if I dip into my savings, there is no guarantee I can put money back into it. And that money is for my loans.
But today, of all days, my car stalled. Right in the middle of the busiest street in Portland, it stalled. Besides the minor panic attack I had, people screamed at me while my hazards blinked wildly and I waved people pass me. I almost broke down crying if it wasn't for that voice screaming in my head to think and fix the problem. It was horrible. Eventually, my car restarted and I made it to work. This is a financial mess that I really want to avoid.
So, life. It handed me lemons. Time for lemon jello shots?! Or lemonade. Maybe I'll stick with lemonade. Man, I hope things perk up soon. I know this is a real downer post and I don't want you, my readers, to think this a pity fest. This whole thing was more of, hey I'm ranting and look who the federal government is really hurting with this. Regular, every day people. I do good work, every day but its been made nearly impossible for me to do that with whole mega-ridiculous shennanigan-ry. But this is adult life right? I'll work through it, I'm sure I will. I can't let life get me down, I will not stand idly by while things crumble around me. Life may not be fair, but that doesn't mean I'll go down quietly.  

Are you listening, Ms. Dickinson? It's me, Laura

So, I've started writing again. Like actually writing, like somewhere close to a new poem almost everyday. I'm starting to feel a bond with Emily Dickinson. Although my poems make a little more sense then hers, and no where near as good. Yet I can really relate to her. It's so consuming, but the need to write is insatiable. My fingers twitch when a pen isn't in my hand allowing me to scribble incessantly into a battered notebook. I don't know if this is a good sign or not. Mostly, I find writing eases the ache. Although, on my last blog post I droned on about moving on and removing myself from my past relationship, the ache still lingers.
I call it my phantom pain.
I miss something that is not longer there, I feel for something no longer a part of me.
It's my phantom.
I'm sure many may call that an over exaggeration, and quite possibly it is. But when a first love dissipates, no matter how smoothly, some part of your heart will always ache for that loss. I fully recognize the relationship ended, the ship has sailed, and I no longer want it. But that doesn't mean I have forgotten it or even crave that love anymore. Again, it is still very soon since the closure. Yet the ache still lingers: it is very small, and rarely noticeable. Less frequently does it consume me.
But the amusing thing is: this little ache makes me write more than ever before. Writing is my medicine in a way. I can remove the feelings by trapping them on paper. Conveinent, too.
I also feel the need to clarify, as well. I don't want to be in that relationship anymore. I don't want to be with my ex. The love is gone. I don't want any of those, which makes the ache all the more confusing at times. But when I write these emotions into a poem, I can make sense of them in my own way. It's not so much the person, so much as the heart break of losing someone so important in your life. The confusion stems from trying to rework my whole entire life, because I had plans and dreams that suddenly were obsolete after the relationship ended. Sometimes, the fear and loneliness is too much to bear, the desire to feel loved again, the guilt over moving on, the anger over a broken heart. These emotions are powerful, these emotions have risen to the surface and faded as time goes on. They ebb and flow. Many of these tides of emotions don't even show themselves anymore.
You feel what you feel.
Right now, I enjoy the company of another while someone I once loved very deeply is very lonely.
The main emotion here: guilt.
I'm happy with my place in life. I'm excited about the path I've put myself onto. I'm very happy with the people I have in my life. I will always miss and long for the relationship I lost. A small part of me will always feel sad that it ended. That's what I'm feeling now: that sadness. The emotion I'm riding for my writing is that sadness. The most intense of emotions, the most intense of events always make for the best poetry.
But the guilt I feel for him is that when I enjoy my life without him, when I find new friends and make a living, when I'm happier now than when I was with him, I feel guilty. And in turn I feel sad, because I shouldn't be guilty over this. In time, I believe he'll be happier. Right now, a part of me feels that he wouldn't be going through his sadness if we were still together. This is a wrong way of thinking. I can only feel what I feel. And I'll write it out, let it leave my body and just keep moving forward.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a poet? To start out one place and end another? Everyday, I write and write, read and read. But these emotions change even as the words are written, nothing remains constant. Everything changes, nothing is still.