Body Notes

Journal: March 20, 2002:

It’s warming-up now. All the girls wear pink or pastel blue or purple or daisy decorated spaghetti strap dresses, and I am in blue jeans and a solid color t-shirt (black, navy, gray). I do not have the nice smooth shoulders for such a revealing thing—I don’t have the right body for it—my gut would stick out, and I would look like a fat bitch dog waddling around campus or maybe a stiff penguin dressed only in black—I am not particularly attractive—plain, actually: slightly overweight (maybe I am really fat?), dirty blond hair, swollen eyes from all nighters (every night), lashes that just won’t puff-up with mascara, lips dragged down by a dull red, stark white skin that burns instead of tans—who would find me attractive? Sam did: I think he did—we dated for several months—he was attractive—definitely: nice developed shoulders, muscles somewhere around casual weight lifting, spiked hair just on the verge of being punkish rather than pop fad, simple black shirt and blue jeans, and the slimmest-rimmed glasses—he was nice—what did he see in me? Definitely: my puffy eyes and my double chin as I leaned my head down to write notes in my red notebook or read philosophy—He had looked at my body, torn my clothes off with a hawk-like stare, pointed and laughed at soft skin ripples, and shinny pink stretch marks (I wonder if there is a cream for those…vitamin E?). But maybe he had looked at me because he thought I was pretty—beautiful even—

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Journal: March 20, 2002:

For my feminism class today we finished reading the Vagina Monologues and were assigned to write something about a part of our bodies—vagina seemed like a good place to start—

Dear Vagina,

I had known you were always there, but Mama never told me about you. Even when you started bleeding, when I was twelve, she never told me you existed. She said the usual things: “you are a woman now,” “you are my big girl,” “here is a glass of wine to celebrate,” “here is a tampon.” I had to find out about you in high school—remember—senior year: it was the night Dylan Madison slipped his large, tanned hand down my panties and asked me what I felt. I was surprised when his finger seemed to go inside me, up into me, become a part of me: I really didn’t know it was you.

I let him touch me, let him kiss me, let him unbutton my azure blouse because I thought that is what all good girls do. I smiled as he unzipped his pants, and I was finally happy that I was becoming a “real woman.” I was in his back seat—remember—and it smelled like Skoal or what was it—it was hard, musty, and stark against the thin stream of warm fresh air that came in from the crack in the window. I let him have you.

Mama had always said, shaking her head and pressing lips together as if the subject would rip her lips away, “‘it’ is meant for a married man and woman,” but I couldn’t wait to find you so I let him have me. He smiled at me when we saw each other

in the high-school halls, and you got mushy like melted butter, and I was embarrassed: would he notice? I would smile back, and he would nod his head to his buddies, and they

would laugh, and I knew they were laughing at me. The news passed quickly: I was an

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easy girl.

“Easy-girl” stuck to me like air—guys asked me out—told me romantic things—touched me—kissed me—I was attractive then (skinny and firm) so guys had no problem making me fall in love with them—love is such a hard word to say—I evaded it (and you) the rest of senior year and my first year of college.

Then I met Sam my sophomore year of college: the guy who made my head spin and my body tingle like it had fallen asleep. One evening (after we had been dating for sometime), sitting next to him, I stared at his hazel-colored hair from the corner of my eye, and I watched as his shoulders rose and sank almost as if he was a balloon being inflated then deflated—It was beautiful. I thought maybe you would reappear, but only your shadow came as he smiled, and I smiled, and…

I almost gave up on you, but somehow your memory still tore at my skull. You were like a lost empire—a civilization hidden under the high, blowing sands of Africa or South America. If I could have I would have gotten an expedition together and trekked across the world of my body to discover you. I would have deciphered dirty maps, hiked up steeple-like mountains framing the world, and we would have carried our tiny gardener shovels, thick bristled paint brushes, and window-screened wood-frames to sift pebbles and stones and dirt clods from the packed earth of my skin, and we would pitch tents and wear white Panama hats made from rainforest leaves and decorated with bright vanilla blossoms: would we find you, though? With all our equipment? Would I find you in the wood-frame-sifter among my broken pottery or chunks of gold or decaying clay tablets—would we find you?

I always knew you were there, but I never really knew you—

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Red notebook: April 1, 2002:

Possible topics for feminism paper and comments:

1).   A critique of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex. I will read it
        twice. Underline key passages with a bright red-inked pen or
        marker. I will jot notes in the discolored margins, and then I can
        make an outline. Thesis: Simone de Beauvoir examined the
        woman when the woman was taboo—no, too passive. Thesis #2:
        Simone de Beauvoir examines the nature of femininity in her
        groundbreaking work The Second Sex—I’ll think about it—

2).   Read Camille Paglia’s book Sexual Personae and use her
        critiques of art—maybe that Venus painting by Botticelli or a
        Picasso or maybe a Matisse—are women really blue? What other
        famous art works could I write about? Raphael? Rossetti? All
        these were men—do women paint—?

3).   I could do women painters and their interpretation of the female
       body. I cannot think of the names of any woman painters off the
       top of my head though—was Christina Rossetti a painter or a
       writer? Maybe Georgia O’Keefe—didn’t she paint the skulls and
       the desert. What was she going for? Femininity is “death?” Being
       a woman in a man’s world is a wasteland? I like art—female art
       maybe Venus of Willdorf, and I can analyze how her large,
       rounded hips of hardened clay symbolized the ever fertile Earth
       Goddess, and I can write something about her milk-laden breasts
       dripping down to her oversized legs—how they symbolized the
       bounty of the earth and the people who suckled from it.

4.    Hermaphrodites? No—nothing but ambiguity. I couldn’t imagine
       being a hermaphrodite and always in-between (is there a hyphen
       in  that?) being and not being

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something and nothing.

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Journal: April 22, 2002

Dear eyes,

    You have seen a lot.

What has been your favorite? First-sex (no), mom’s hard pressed lips trying to open and say the magic words about “it” (no), or maybe the big, brilliant, blue A I got on my Simone de Beauvoir paper—The Second Sex and Other Meaningful Distinctions—the teacher, silver coyote earrings dangling around her long face, said good job when she handed it back to me (maybe).

When I was five I took my lacy yellow Easter dress off in church (mom didn’t see me, and I don’t know why, because I was right next to her) and ran down the isle naked. I screamed, “GOD ALMIGHTY GOD ALMIGHTY GOD ALMIGHTY” down the isle to the surprised priest and alter boys who stared mesmerized at my contour-less body—

they smiled and laughed, and the priest said something religiously appropriate for the occasion: “a child enjoying her Eden instincts and the love of our Father.” He was full of crap. Mom picked me up by my armpits and purposely, though she says she did no such thing, dug her long pink-filed fingernails into my skin. I started crying, and I kicked and kicked and punched and slapped my mom until she dropped me and slapped me back: I stopped crying. (No).

What about seeing Sam for the first time? I sat in the library reading Being and Nothingness by Sartre, and I looked up and saw him sitting across from me reading a book on—on—I don’t remember actually, because all that I could look at was his deeply interested face, vivid green eyes staring out intently behind thin-rimmed glasses, and his

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lips slightly, silently reading the words—fluid motions: the next…particle…went through…the second…slit (he must have been reading physics). I remember how his lips touched on the “p” and then stopped as if he had to contemplate, reason, and understand. He looked up and glanced at me briefly then went back to his reading. I tore my eyes away and pretended to read the “bad faith” section in Sartre, and I tried to ignore the prickle in my muscles climbing up my body like champagne bubbles. He looked up again (did he see me looking at him?) and this time he stopped and stared, and I stared, and he smiled, and I smiled. Then he came over: what are you reading, he said? My mouth parched, and I just barely squeaked out: Being and Nothingness. Wow, I tried to read that, but I had a heck of a time, he said and sat down next to me. We talked for a bit: I told him about existentialism, ontology, and feminism; how Simone de Beauvoir and Sartre were lovers who let one another have other sexual partners. His eyes beamed, and I could tell he was impressed. You really know your stuff, he said. I wish I were half as read as you, he said. And I smiled, and he smiled, and he asked me out—I said yes. We went for coffee (so clichéd, but it was perfect) at Bucers, and he bought me a mocha latte, and we shared a piece of cheesecake while we found out everything about one another: he liked to lift weights, he was an ED-major, played guitar in his spare time, wrote songs and poetry on the sly, played internet chess late at night, and tried to read one novel a week, though he admitted that most were small books compared to my philosophy readings. (Yes).

But what about our break-up—a week after that day I ran away from the dorm? He sat in the chair across from my couch and stared at the floor—his glasses slipped to the end of his nose, and he did not push them up. I sat opposite him on the couch staring at his hung head and wishing I could run my hand through his hair and tell him sweet

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things: life, love, desire, soul-mate—he looked up, nodded, and I nodded, and he

smiled while his eyes seemed to turn to sparkling glass. We hugged and said goodbye—I opened my door for him, and he walked out quietly. We each went our separate ways, him into his beat-up Bug and me into the solitude of my dead-silent apartment, as the summer between junior and senior year separated us entirely. (No).

You are quiet, eyes—Do you have a favorite?

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Bucers napkin stained with mocha latte: April 23, 2002:

Stretch Marks

pink indentations
like ripped paper
on skin
drawn up the belly
by childish hands
unaware of breasts
or men or beauty.

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Journal: May 1, 2002:

My feminism teacher wants me to submit the Simone de Beauvoir essay to a feminist magazine: Breaking Gender. It is really good, she said. I would love to sponsor you for it, she said. I am not sure; I would need to do some revising on it, but I have finals coming up. I wonder if she would talk to the rest of my instructors for me—? No, I should just do both—it is the best paper I have written—?

I got home after philosophy today, and I saw my Caller ID light blinking. I dropped my bag on the floor, the books toppled and smacked against one another inside, and I tipped the Caller ID and saw Sam’s name and number: Sam Brinsfield 892-0008.

My throat tightened and my muscles felt stiff; I wanted to erase it from the ID box, but I

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didn’t—I didn’t—I might call him—maybe—I wonder why he called after a year?

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Scribbled lipstick on mirror: May 2, 2002:

I look in the mirror and you stare back—Yes you; you are the one who follows me, stares at me, judges me. Flogs me over the head and drags me away by the hair: you are such a heathen. You are a breast-less, barbarian Amazon, who beats back the rising waves of Greek soldiers, rather than the civilized woman you should be. I really do not want to see you. I brush your hair and clip your fingernails and brush your teeth and clean your face and sweep blue eye shadow on your sometimes-puffy eyelids. You are the beast—and maybe the beauty—?

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Journal: May 4, 2002:

I still haven’t called Sam, and he hasn’t called me back. I feel sick. I wonder what he wanted—? I imagine myself calling him—ear pressed firmly to the phone, buzz of the ring, click, and eruption of the man’s voice—but I am not sure what to say: hi Sam just returning your call. What’s up? Need something? No that would be too casual—why did he call?

Whenever I think about Sam and the times we had together I get sick. I especially get queasy thinking about that day—I walked up the steep stairs to Sam’s dorm room. The halls vibrated with loud techno—Prodigy maybe—I walked down the hall, dodging the guys who celebrated the weekend before finals week, and who started to pack their belongings for the long trips home. I tried to ignore them, as I got closer to Sam’s room. A couple doors away from Sam’s dorm I heard Sam laughing, and I stopped. I pressed my body against the wall and tried to listen over the beat of the music—why did I just

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stand there? Why did I listen? I stood there and listened as Sam’s best friend and roommate started talking: oh come on Sam, why are you with that cow anyway. You certainly could do better, his friend said. She’s not even worth fucking, his friend said. I covered my mouth and wanted to puke. My stomach hurts now, and I wish Sam were here to rub the aches out of my body with his tanned hands, make me peppermint tea, and kiss me despite the queasy roll in my stomach.

Sometimes I wonder if he was ever really attracted to me? Maybe he agreed with his friend. I ran away from the roaring hall so I really do not know—music and notevenworthfucking, notevenworthfucking, notevenworthfucking. I am not the most attractive woman in the world, I know, and I am sure Sam had looked at other girls on campus and wished he could unbutton their pastel-colored blouses and unhook their hip-hugging jean shorts and tell them sweet things like: love, passion, lust, forever—

But I loved him, and I want to call him, but I am sick—sick—

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Black pocketbook journal in khaki purse: May 5, 2002:

I found a dirty napkin tucked in the bottom of a pocket when I cleaned out my purse. It had a poem on it. “Stretch Marks.” Why did I write it? pink indentations—not so much indentations, but sunken skin dipping into the body. like ripped paper—construction paper ripped into an abstract and beautiful collage resembling a Picasso

woman—but it is not that beautiful for some reason. on skin—why skin, why not inside in the tissues, in the blackness and bloody mess of my inside—why outside where people can see and hate? drawn up the belly—how could they be drawn up belly if they are like ripped paper—I need to get my metaphors right. by childish hands—if it were childish hands then it would be a work of art because every drawing by a child is a work of art:

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expressive, fun, and then the parent magnets it to the fridge—I wouldn’t want to be stuck on the fridge—would it be for arts sake?—or just a mother putting her daughter’s drawing up to please her because the mother really hates the mediocre scribbles. unaware of breasts—? or men or beauty—Sam never said anything about my stretch marks, but I have a feeling, a feeling gnawing at the back of my neck or a feeling choking me like a too-tight turtle neck, that tells me that he hated them and tried to ignore them—what did he see in me then? I’ll throw away the napkin.

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Journal: May 30, 2002:

I called Sam today. While I waited, listening to the repetitive buzz of the ring, I thought about our reunion: we meet at Bucers. I have a mocha latte, and he drinks a caramel cappuccino. He wears a simple red tee-shirt slightly wrinkled at the hems, and I do not mind because his capriciousness has always been his best strength—he scratches his slightly messy hazel-colored hair, rubs the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses, and stares at me as I talk about school, grades, work, and life—everything seems perfect—back to normal—back to desire, passion, love, forever—and he stares at me no matter what—no matter at all—sipping his cappuccino and laughing at my jokes about philosophy, feminism, and men—

Sam wasn’t home—his answering machine came on: Hi this is Sam. I’m not home right now, but I will definitely get back to you as long as you leave your name, number, and a brutally detailed message. Ciao.—I didn’t leave a message.

Love doesn’t exist does it—?

I got a letter today from Breaking Gender: my paper got accepted for the next issue.

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Written in shower steam on bathroom mirror: May 30, 2002:

ENEMY

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Black pocketbook journal in khaki purse: June 1, 2002:

I wish I could fly away: I want to become a bird—I want my chunky breasts, stretch marks, round hips, all of it to morph into the bright red breast of a robin, and I want to be full of song. I want to bounce happily, wings tucked around my sun-drenched body, and pick at the remains of sweet apples from the tree across from my apartment. I want to become a swooping eagle screeching my existence through the thick of blue air and white cloud, and I want everyone to cock their heads and watch as I glide; they would say: look, look at the majesty of nature. Look at the eagle fly like wind, howl like storm, gaze like there is no tomorrow. I want to be in the air, and I want to cut the clouds with my beak, and I want to land on the plains of the Palouse and rest my wind-weary wings and watch and watch and watch life pass me by until nothing is unseen—

Fly, fly away, and become something scenic—alone in the air—