Woman’s Day: Five Parts

The Fight

A familiar place, familiar faces, and a familiar feeling. 
The family home. 

Smooth justification, sudden declaration,
It’s normal if it happens often enough.
Sucky baby’s got it tough.
Never complains about it enough.
Minor altercation.
Minor inbound, heading for station.


The Flight

Face red; thoughts blue, turning black.
Arm dead; officer who?
Take me back.
Stockholm, hold the phone.
Please?


The Fit

I DID WHAT ANYONE ELSE WOULD DO YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA I’M JUST A KID THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO MAKE SURE IT NEVER GETS THIS BAD BUT I MEAN IT’S NOT THAT BAD REALLY PLEASE CAN YOU TELL THEM IT’S OK AND I’M OK AND IT’S GOING TO BE OK MY ARM HURTS BUT NOT AS MUCH AND NOBODY HAS TO KNOW APART FROM YOU GUYS PLEASE I WANNA GO TO BED THIS IS A SCHOOL NIGHT AND WHEN YOU FALL ASLEEP ALL THE TIME PEOPLE START ASKING QUESTIONS MY UNIFORM IS AT HOME MY BOOKS AND SHIT ALL MY SHIT IS AT HOME I CAN’T BREATHE I HAVE MISSED SO MUCH CLASS ALREADY AND I’M STARTING TO FAIL THINGS FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER FUCK I CANNOT BREATHE TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME IF YOU WANT TO HELP ME THIS IS NOT THE WAY TO DO IT WHY ARE YOU BEING LIKE THIS PLEASE STOP IGNORING ME EVERYBODY IGNORES ME I UNDERSTAND I AM INSANE AND ANNOYING AND DRAMATIC AND SHIT I’M SORRY I’M DONE BEING A BIG IDIOT AND I WANT TO STOP I AM SO SORRY  PLEASE JUST TAKE ME HOME.
PLEASE.

No. Calm down. 

FUCKING WHAT THE FUCK SERIOUSLY CUNT FUCKING WHAT THE CUNTING FUCK I DO NOT NEED TO CALM DOWN.

silence

– more… uh… silence –

OK.
FINE.
SORRY.
TIRED.

Nearly there. Sit tight.

– SILENCE, SLEEP –


The Fallout

Pressed, processed, depressed, dejected.
This is why I don’t make my own lunch anymore. Who knows when I’ll get to eat it? Oh, god, who knows when I’ll next eat. I’m not hungry. I’m not. No.
Inky hands make me feel like an idiot housecat stuck in a storm drain.
Look around and down.
Not free, but no longer bound.

FUK DA PIGZ  – how original.
TANIA SUX COX 02X XXX XXXX– and has broken an angry person’s heart, maybe…? Or an oblique marketing strategy? Hmmm… Nobody’s allowed a phone in here, so this person has committed this to heart. And expects others to do it too? Really, dude?
DUMPEDIN – is that a play on Dunedin, or did someone become a biohazard? The Power of One. The Shawshank Redemption. Shit. I don’t want to touch anything in here. What’s worse, the bench or the floor? I’m going to be sick. Making this place even grosser. Fuck. Shit.
IHTFP – yeah, me too. But I think that’s the point of it.

“Could I please have something to read other than the walls? Pleeeeeeease?”


The Favour

“Sure, hang on.”

A magazine, “relieved” of its staples, comes through a panel in the door.

“You’re not allowed a pen, sorry. The crosswords might be missing anyway. Are you hungry?”

Fuck.

“Hello? Would you like something to eat?” 

“Thank you for this. Newer than the ones at the doctor’s. Better condition, too.”

– nervous laughter –

(in the background) OI CUNT WHO’D SHE SUCK TO GET A FUCKIN FEED OI PIG CUNT.

“Better go deal with this. Dunno what you kids like, but that’s a Woman’s Day. Better than nothing, eh?”


That’s a woman’s day.
It’s better than nothing.

PROSE BEFORE HOES

How can I tell anyone
that I’ve gone back on my word?

How do I break it to Dad
that I’m reconsidering death again?
Not the conventional methods this time,
but by letting the cancer eat its fill?
The same thing that happened to his mother’s brain.
The father’s mother with whom I share a name.

How can my mother know
not to expect grandchildren, adopted or otherwise?
When test results become tabulated lies?
That her daughter uses her scorched earth for something else?
Cold sweat and old threats.
Don’t worry your pretty little head.

She’s in your area.
She knows the first three numbers.

When you come out, your shit is gone.
Just don’t follow me down the stairs… my shortcut hurts.

Tell the usual suspects I’ll be different.
Better behaved and truly submissive.
Good girls don’t have gag reflexes
or any real guts at all.
We wait until we’re hit before we say anything, right?
Fuck me apart and I won’t say shit… just let me sit in it for a minute.

Or I won’t say anything and let the results speak for themselves.
Because it’s not down to me to tell anyone anything anymore.
If you really must know
then you gotta stick around for the clean-up.

I wouldn’t and you shouldn’t.

I’ve been trying really hard to pull my head out already,

which is to say, I’m really sick of being sad.

It’s terribly draining to be sad for long periods of time, but I’m sure everyone knows that.
There’s a million reasons any person can be sad, reasons occurring both internally and externally.
We all work differently, live differently, see things differently, and learn things differently.
We have all had unique experiences that have led us to where we are today, experiences that a lot of people would say is a ‘journey’ to get to the exact spot they are this second. And the next second. The one after that, and also this one. And so on.

I better get to the point, for all our sakes; we’re wasting valuable seconds here! Shit!

Anyway, I know what it’s like to be sad in my own way, and you must know what makes you sad too, because you’ve been sad before in your own way too, because something hurt you.

This goes for everybody.

And that in itself makes me a bit sad, but it’s true. Yep, that’s the only word I’m going use to describe it. Sad. It was some sad-ass sadness, I tell you WHUT. But, the thing is, I decided to pull my head out of my own sadness the other day and get my head in some of the sadnesses of others.

Of course, I started with the internet, mainly because my laptop was the only thing I found mildly interesting within arm’s reach during this particular instance of me feeling fed up with my sadness, and, well, also because it’s the number-one source of information about anything, ever (Shout out to Tim Berners-Lee, you hero, you).

I typed ‘sadness’ into Google. That was step one. I found a whole lot there:
﴾descriptions to describe sadness and its function in the human brain
﴾stock images of people with their heads in their hands
﴾a Wikipedia definition that sums it up more or less logically
﴾WikiHow’s5 Ways to Overcome Sadness
﴾a surprisingly deep definition on Urban Dictionary.

…that’s to mention a small handful.

And, kind of abruptly, I started laughing at the fact I just typed ‘sadness’ into a a search engine, and started to wonder if I’d just lost my sanity for a second and should just close all tabs and stand up and clean my damned room or something.
But, then, I thought, fuck it. I deserve to laugh at something, so I’ll laugh at myself, because I forgive myself that. I just want to hear myself laugh again. I’m fed up with being sad so I’ll fucking laugh at myself because that’s my god-damned right, I’ve fucking earned it after all this self hate.
And then I’ll stop laughing at myself, and somehow laugh with myself – in a more compassionate way, because I feel better and less insane after a cackling fit (I HAVE NO IDEA HOW THAT WORKS EITHER BUT THAT’S OK).

I forgot that the differences between things aren’t the only important thing in the world. It’s important to notice the similarities, too. For some reason I’m not entirely clear on, I found it really fucking hilarious that I have never come to this simple, sobering and comforting fact before.

I feel a bit better now.

On How It’s Over Now

Maybe I should wait a day or two, not just fifteen minutes after a dispassionate conversation, but I’m throwing my toys because it’s over now. It’s over, and I was the one who decided it should be so.

I spent last night thinking about how people stay with people because they’re convinced that nobody else will accept their flaws & whatnot.
Oh, what a terrible waste of joie de vivre! What a way to treat yourself and someone else! How confining!

What a situation I was in.

Of course, things were very lovely in the beginning. The giggling and the cute stuff. The way he’d let me trace words on his back for him to guess. The way he’d pretend the end of my braid was a paintbrush on my face. The squealing and tickle-fights. Arms over shoulders and around the small of my back. So much time and energy for each other; where did I keep all of that when I was alone?

There’s nothing I can really blame him for and there’s no definitive point from where everything went downhill, so this might just be me throwing out the baby with the bathwater. Maybe I killed another thing just because it was imperfect. Am I a murderer of fledgling hopes? Or did I just want something different, something fairer and more conducive to growth and understanding?

Either way, I’m back at square one, cross-legged, tracing lines in the dust. Not sad, just unsettled. Not annoyed, just resolute. Spurred to action by an ever-widening emptiness and loneliness in viscera, but bolted to the spot by fear and apprehension and goodness knows what else. There’s nothing anyone can do with that. I am solitary. Solitaire.

Ughhh. Fuck’s sake.

I’m going to go eat something. An empty stomach can’t help a broken brain try and make sense of itself, after all.

You’re very articulate for a Tongan, did you know that?

This kind of thing used to make me indiscriminately angry, despite the half-melted nuggets of a compliment being present in this god-damned biscuit of a sentence.

My “white” half gets pretty insulted too, seeing as it’s invisible most of the time. And no, this isn’t some sort of veiled complaint about how my feet are dead-person pale because I don’t go barefoot in the sun often enough. No, that’s not it, home-skeez. The fact is, according to a lot of people, if you’re a little bit coloured, then you’re a whole lot coloured.
My favourite example of this is Barack Obama. I mean, most of us know he has a so-called white parent, but that gets in the way when one wants to emphasise how progressive the world now is for having a black president all up in its guts.
Of course I understand how momentous that is, due to caring about Civil Rights problems and believing that everyone deserves a fair go in life. But I don’t like score-keeping and vague definitions of character.

OK, so I still get all pissy about it. I thought I grew out of it, but… …nah. This means I have to go deeper. Screw it, I’m game.

I’ve had something of a larger-than-average vocabulary for as long as I can remember, so, a while ago, I decided to ask who was responsible: my mother. And she ended up telling me what I thought she would, something like, “I imagined my two brown babies having nothing to say in a room full of smart whites, and it made me cry.” That kind of fear is very real, even though it may seem a bit melodramatic. That fear will drive a woman to teach her kids to read before kindergarten. It’ll make her massively angry when her brown babies are made to feel blue. It’ll make her beg them to make sunshine of her struggle.

And, sadly, it’ll hang a yoke around my neck that I don’t deserve.

As up-myself as it may sound, I generally feel like I’m representing something that’s marginalised, and I think that’s because I inhabit a lot of grey (or beige?) areas. I’m a tiny ambassador, I guess. If I’m not taking the left-hand path (HELLO SATAN), then I’m trying to wend my way through the middle. It’s kinda difficult when I get a lot of, “What… are you doing here?!”, but at least that gives me an opportunity to tell someone exactly why.

And god damn it if it doesn’t feel good to drop some knowledge on some motherfuckers.

BUT

they are not all motherfuckers. If I’m all about both halves of myself, then I have to admit that it’s nobody’s actual fault that stereotypes exist and get fulfilled more often than they perhaps should, and I also need to remind myself that there are other races far more marginalised than the ones my body contains. It’s no good to snap at someone because you hand-picked a few words to focus on, and it sure is silly to be the person who invites the US VERSUS THEM vibe into the room (guilty as charged), so it’s good to try my favourite thing instead: disarming, simplistic honesty.

“You’re kinda smart for an Islander.”
“Thank you! I’m clever and brown. I’m also female and prone to fainting spells. This is a conversation; you’re having one with me! Discuss.”

P.S.: Tongans call me white/palangi/hinehina all the time too, so, yeah, it cuts both ways. But I don’t usually get angry when there’s food involved, no matter who you are. You can call me whatever you want when I’m eating your chicken.
; )

I Too Have an Opinion Pertaining to Natalia Kills and Willy Moon.

THAT SAID, ANYONE DOES THIS IN THE SAME ROOM AS ME AND THEY GET THE GARDEN HOSE. NO QUESTION, NO FOOLIN'.

I think this is love in one of its many forms, maybe?
Shhh. It makes sense. Even if it doesn’t, they’re like, adults & married & goliveyourlifeok.

Despite knowing fuck-all about these two individuals and what they do, I will share an opinion on them. Maybe I’m trying to fit in. Or I could just be a piece of opinionated seaweed being dragged along with the online gossip tide. Honestly, at the end of it all, I don’t think it really matters.

I’ve read some stuff written by people who have been thinking about those two a lot.
The reason I don’t say, “I’ve read some stuff that people wrote about these two” is because I don’t think the articles are really about Kills and Moon, but rather about the author.

Think about it. If the morality of this situation is really the issue, then by all means tell us how much higher your horse is than whatever animal they ride (I’m imagining them riding a Buggalo; Moon has the reins and is looking really pleased with himself, whereas Kills gets to make herself a bit more comfortable behind him, saying great stuff like, “Darling, the back of your fashionable head makes me want to lick my own hand”).

But I’m assuming that’s not the issue. Because if it was, if these people really cared about how people provide considerate feedback and communicate kindly with each other, then why in the fuck are they being so horrible in response?

It’s like a parent hitting their child for “being excitable and nervous”. Sure, the child now knows they’re acting in a way that annoys their parent, but is now triggered by the experience, exacerbating the entire situation, thus perpetuating the ill will and bad blood.

It’s like throwing spiders at an arachnophobic person, claiming that it’s exposure therapy and that everything will be fine. Sure, that might have worked for someone before, but you know it’s not the best way, not by a long shot. You’ll probably lose a friend by acting that way, and I’m sure that’s not the way to treat arachnids (no matter how scary you find them).

It’s like going overseas with a gun, claiming that you need to go shoot some motherfuckers, because someone needs to show them that killing is wrong and that war is sad.

Except it’s not like any of those situations, is it? Not really. But the formula is in keeping, it seems.
Bad thing? More bad thing will stop first bad thing! No more bad thing! Wait… thing still bad? BAAAD THING!!!

OK so they got fired. Fair enough; they were employed as judges of showmanship and instead ended up making it personal. But what I find intriguing is that I hear it was prompted by a petition. See, I’ve signed a handful or two of petitions in my time, but none of them were about entertainment.
Sure, you can bend it six ways to Sunday and say “it’s not the type of entertainment, but the fact there’s such a horrible example of behaviour on TV, and we all know I’m a crusader for kindness”, but I will laugh you out of the room because you are so obviously lying.
Do you even know the auditioner’s name? Do you think Norman Bates is boring and that Psycho sucks? Do you know any facts, or are you making shit up? Whatever, let’s just not talk about this at length or I’ll draw conclusions about what your opinion says about you.

I summed up a lot of articles in one sentence each, kinda like: / THIS ONE’S ANGRY BECAUSE THE BEAUTIFUL LADY DIDN’T ACT BEAUTIFUL AND IT’S KINDA SEXIST OR SOMETHING / THIS STUFF’S ABOUT PERCEIVED IDEAS OF ORIGINALITY AND IS KINDA INTERESTING / THIS ONE’S ABOUT WILLY MOON’S ALBUM AND WOW THIS SHIT CAN’T BE REAL BUT HERE IT IS. Luckily, I didn’t get too far before I realised that I was only doing this because I was procrastinating an assignment.

So now I feel bad for anyone whose marvellous and complex brains were taken up by this story.
I’m also wondering how ridiculous I just seemed. But there’s the rub, isn’t it?
Express yourself, do your best, then leave. On stage and in life. The more we do this, the less we suck.

...unless you wanna Suck It And See? Bet you just fell off your chair. Or sank into a chair if you were standing. Because I'm funny.

edit 30/03/2015: here’s something interesting by Brian Edwards on this topic, (with something rather nice about Yehudi Menuhin for good measure). And don’t ask me who Edwards is, because I’ll just ignore you because YOU SHOULD KNOW.