A Tease
Mirror, Mirror
Since only speak the truth,
I will not be timid.
Mirror, Mirror
Speak to me,
how beautiful am I?
Mirror, Mirror
I cannot hear you.
Do not be shy, as I wish to be.
Mirror, Mirror
I stand here, naked.
Tell me, again, how beautiful am I?
Mirror, Mirror
I promise, I will never
let anyone in, only you.
Mirror, Mirror
Are you comfortable with what
you see? Teasing, unashamed.
Mirror, Mirror
I hear a knock at the window,
the apples, they are so pretty.
My envious heart cannot resist, the innocence you would rather be staring at.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Faith
I just need to realize what faith is. I have never had to compete so much to understand or hear God. Every day it has been a constant battle. I have been talking and trying to listen, but I can never seem to hear him. I think that I have been filling my life with too many small things lately that it has caused a whirlwind of perspective. I have started concentrated on what I could be instead of who I am. I cannot understand why my life had been so different lately. I find myself constantly thinking of the consequences of the future when I have always lived my life by the minute. Life is a gift, and can tell myself that over and over, but it’s the idea of slowing down to understand that. That is the real challenge. Can I make myself realize what is important? My future is shaped by my present, but if I wonder so much about the future in my present, how can I have a future? It seems like it would be impossible to have a future if the present is never lived. Life was so enjoyable when I walked along and took in every moment as a gift instead of worrying about what the moment would offer me. The future to me is my form of greed. I want so much to be successful that I don’t realize that in the way I was living my life before I was totally successful. Since my constant battles with my thoughts have occurred, I have lost my connection with God. He was the one I thought about every morning when I woke up, and every evening when I would fall asleep. He was the reason that I loved my life, and that I am eternally grateful for life. Now thoughts of what I have to do in my entire day pace through my mind raiding any thought I could have of God. I hate it. I hate having to feel pressured. I love life when I realize that God will never judge me on what I do, but only how I do. I have to admit writing this down makes it more real, and more manageable. After spending time writing this, I have realized what faith is. Faith is now, it is real. It is something that the future does not consider, but the present yearns for. It is everything that makes me who I am, and everything that I had forgotten. Realizing that it was everything that I wanted is hard. To an extent I think I will always worry about the future, but I think understanding faith is what will keep me grounded. I think that I will be able to understand why I could not hear God. I need to be still now, not in the future. Listen. I will wait, and listen for his whisper every moment.
Open Relationship
Today in class we were discussing Hooks' open relationship and how it was her choice to have that open relationship. I think Hooks wanted that open relationship because maybe she viewed her other relationship, writing, as an open relationship as well. Maybe she thought if one was exclusive that the other would suffer. So she really loved Mack and she wanted him to respond to her, but she wanted to be able to have the option to write. We talked about her being insecure. I think that she had both these things so that when one would fail to cure her insecurities that the other would be able to be there to be the back up. She maybe did not want to sacrifice her love for either one to totally maintain her security. She wants to never be alone therefore she has Mack, but at the same time she wants to be by herself, which she does through her writing.
Still trying to figure it out...
Okay so I did not really connet well with Persepolis when I first read it. For some reason that really bothered me because I thought it was a compelling way to present a memoir and I just liked it. For that reason I have spent a while trying to think why it is I liked it so much, but could not connect with it. These were the few things that I could come up with as to why I liked and I found my connection. First off, Lily asked a question about the use of black and white verses a color presentation. Well my first thought: Color would be really expensive. Then I thought about it deeper to think that maybe Satrapi wanted to connect with people who would not really understand the history of that particular war. People like me. Dare I say many Americans? Where the majority is white. That was one connection that I could make with why it was printed in black and white. On another level, I think that Satrapi encounters many problems that we might encounter as we reflect on our pasts. Granted we never had to move out of our parents house because of war, or have to worry about a strict dress code, moral code, and religious code, but in a way we do. Satrapi had to move out of her house which is something that all of us have encountered as college students. We all have made friends had our troubles no matter how big or small compared to Satrapi, so in that way I think she is a lot like us. Another thing is in our American culture I think that there is a definate standard as to what people "should" wear, "should" act, "should" believe. None of us really get thrown in jail or killed over it, but there is an underlying sense of what we should define to be a part of the American society. With that I think that Satrapi's life really can connect with that of an American reader. Just some after thoughts.
Little things
In high school, I ran track and cross-country. I excelled at track, but cross-country was not really my thing. I would try so hard to run up and front to keep up with the state girls, but I would find myself falling back by mile two, where Coach Bob would be yelling at me to stride out it’s only a sprint from here. A sprint? I did not know those lasted for a mile and a half. Anyways, I could feel myself glaring at his tall, thin, overly tanned statue on the side of the course. He pissed me off. When I would finish the race, he would come up to me and would make comments like, “Well, you could of got first.” Ya okay. I would get frustrated and walk over to my bag to take off my spikes. Every race I felt like I wanted to cry. Like I just was not good enough, but my dad would always tell me differently. He would tell me not to listen to Coach Bob what does he know. I knew that he was just trying to make me feel better, but sometimes I just did not want to hear it. I loved and hated my dad for these comments. He always knew how to make me feel good and bad without trying at all.
My dad has never missed a track or cross race. Its tradition for me to give him a hug and a kiss on his cheek before every race while handing him my class ring, which I suspected he would pray over while I was running. Not that I run good, just that I had fun, that is all he cared about. He is about 6’4” and I am his clone except for the fact that I am a girl. His eyes and hands are tired from working so hard on cars all the time. He is the best at repairs in the Midwest. It’s a fact. There are black grease stains running up and down his arms and a burn mark on his hand from when he set himself on fire at work. I always see him smiling, even when he is not happy. Anyways back to him being at all my meets. I remember senior year of high school most vividly. I got my first major injury at New Prairie when I twisted my ankle in a hole running on the last 800 stretch. I fell about two feet from my dad. Before my fall he was telling me that I was about to P.R. if I could just keep my pace, and right at that point I crashed to the ground. I felt my ankle swell, and I wanted to scream. My dad came rushing over, but before I he could touch me I screamed at him to stop and don’t touch me. (If a runner is touched during a race they are automatically disqualified.) He didn’t and I got up and finished. 17:24- a.k.a not a P.R. by any stretch of the imagination, and I could not stand. It was my senior year and I was in the running for N.I.C first team, which is a big deal up here. After that I was still determined to run, even though my dad told me I should just wait and come back in track. I did not care, I was finally one of the best at cross. N.I.C was two weeks away and I was limping and refused crutches. I went to practice every day and rode a bike or did the elliptical. I still was in good shape. Two weeks came to an end, and I could feel my ankle again, but this would be the first time that I would be running for two weeks. My dad tried to talk me out of it. He said that I am for sure going to go to state in track if I just relax. I was at the line. It was too late. Plus Coach said I would be fine. When the gun exploded so did the front pack. I went with them. I just had to get top five. That’s all. When I got to mile two, I was in tears, but still holding my fifth place. My dad jumped out in front of me to have my throbbing ankle saved. I just wanted to finish, so I ducted and kept going. My dad ran to the other side of the course and tackled my tired body on the ground and a group of girls who would of passed me at the straight away zoomed by. I screamed. I could not feel my body, and I hated my dad. He knew I was mad, and he picked me up and bridle carried me through the rest of the course while telling me, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I cried and cried. I would not talk to him, when we got to the finish line he said, “You finished, I am so proud of you.” We went to Medpoint. I was still upset, but he made one of his infamous hangman games on his so called, “gizmo” and he made his message say, “Show them how it’s done in track Swoog.” I Love my papa for stopping me that day. If I would have kept going I would have broken my ankle and still not got first team. I didn’t break my ankle and I rested and trained for track, where I went to the state meet in both indoor and outdoor. Papa was there for both of them, holding my class ring and cheering me on.
In high school, I ran track and cross-country. I excelled at track, but cross-country was not really my thing. I would try so hard to run up and front to keep up with the state girls, but I would find myself falling back by mile two, where Coach Bob would be yelling at me to stride out it’s only a sprint from here. A sprint? I did not know those lasted for a mile and a half. Anyways, I could feel myself glaring at his tall, thin, overly tanned statue on the side of the course. He pissed me off. When I would finish the race, he would come up to me and would make comments like, “Well, you could of got first.” Ya okay. I would get frustrated and walk over to my bag to take off my spikes. Every race I felt like I wanted to cry. Like I just was not good enough, but my dad would always tell me differently. He would tell me not to listen to Coach Bob what does he know. I knew that he was just trying to make me feel better, but sometimes I just did not want to hear it. I loved and hated my dad for these comments. He always knew how to make me feel good and bad without trying at all.
My dad has never missed a track or cross race. Its tradition for me to give him a hug and a kiss on his cheek before every race while handing him my class ring, which I suspected he would pray over while I was running. Not that I run good, just that I had fun, that is all he cared about. He is about 6’4” and I am his clone except for the fact that I am a girl. His eyes and hands are tired from working so hard on cars all the time. He is the best at repairs in the Midwest. It’s a fact. There are black grease stains running up and down his arms and a burn mark on his hand from when he set himself on fire at work. I always see him smiling, even when he is not happy. Anyways back to him being at all my meets. I remember senior year of high school most vividly. I got my first major injury at New Prairie when I twisted my ankle in a hole running on the last 800 stretch. I fell about two feet from my dad. Before my fall he was telling me that I was about to P.R. if I could just keep my pace, and right at that point I crashed to the ground. I felt my ankle swell, and I wanted to scream. My dad came rushing over, but before I he could touch me I screamed at him to stop and don’t touch me. (If a runner is touched during a race they are automatically disqualified.) He didn’t and I got up and finished. 17:24- a.k.a not a P.R. by any stretch of the imagination, and I could not stand. It was my senior year and I was in the running for N.I.C first team, which is a big deal up here. After that I was still determined to run, even though my dad told me I should just wait and come back in track. I did not care, I was finally one of the best at cross. N.I.C was two weeks away and I was limping and refused crutches. I went to practice every day and rode a bike or did the elliptical. I still was in good shape. Two weeks came to an end, and I could feel my ankle again, but this would be the first time that I would be running for two weeks. My dad tried to talk me out of it. He said that I am for sure going to go to state in track if I just relax. I was at the line. It was too late. Plus Coach said I would be fine. When the gun exploded so did the front pack. I went with them. I just had to get top five. That’s all. When I got to mile two, I was in tears, but still holding my fifth place. My dad jumped out in front of me to have my throbbing ankle saved. I just wanted to finish, so I ducted and kept going. My dad ran to the other side of the course and tackled my tired body on the ground and a group of girls who would of passed me at the straight away zoomed by. I screamed. I could not feel my body, and I hated my dad. He knew I was mad, and he picked me up and bridle carried me through the rest of the course while telling me, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I cried and cried. I would not talk to him, when we got to the finish line he said, “You finished, I am so proud of you.” We went to Medpoint. I was still upset, but he made one of his infamous hangman games on his so called, “gizmo” and he made his message say, “Show them how it’s done in track Swoog.” I Love my papa for stopping me that day. If I would have kept going I would have broken my ankle and still not got first team. I didn’t break my ankle and I rested and trained for track, where I went to the state meet in both indoor and outdoor. Papa was there for both of them, holding my class ring and cheering me on.
Bad night
I was angry today. My face was flushed and teased my anxious tears while I was forced to face it in front of all the needy customers at my job. I just wanted them to go away, and I wanted him to notice me. I know that he does when he can, but I am like my customers-needy.
He likes to drink. I hate it. I love him. He wants to get drunk to night-fine. I’ll hate him for it. I work all day with a smile. That’s how anger builds. When you can’t just let it go, and on top of that you have to act like you are the polar opposite- happy. I’ll let it go. He was mad at me, even though he says is was not. He is still. Angry, upset, worried. I laid in my bed for hours waiting for his text, and hoping that it would never come. I won’t answer is what I tell myself. Promise. Three hours go by while I stare at my phone waiting for the bright blue reflection to bounce off the inside of my sheets. I listen to the small ear buds that whisper all that I can hope from love, what whisper everything that I think is written for me. Of all the pressure that we put on her, seems we’ve lost her for good. She’ll never walk on water because no one really saw her. I just wanted to know what I was doing wrong. Why was I not good enough for him? He wants to go and be with his friends. They are everything that I could never be. I do not believe in what they do. They beg to lose control. I want all the control I can get.
LETS
GET
DRUNK…
His friends tell him that it is okay, and I cannot speak because I drown in my own fears, that he will leave me. Don’t leave. Please. Just go. Don’t be dumb. He does not care. The vibrations carry me away from thoughts of what I did wrong, what he will do wrong. My eyes stare at the blue light. I put on a face of resentment but it’s all that I wanted. My heart still jumped to know he was still thinking of me.
Dan: How was work gorgeous?
I did not respond. I waited for him to stop caring. To test him. I really don’t know why I waited. I did. I was cold and I wanted him to warm me, like he always did. I rubbed my calves and feet together while I was in the fetal position tangled in the sheets hoping that the friction could mimic his love. I’ll wait. I won’t text him. Promise?
Me: Fine.
Dan: Did you just get off?
Me: No like three hours ago.
Dan: Oh did you go out with your dad? Haha
Me: No he doesn’t have time.
Dan: Oh ic. What are you up to?
Me: Nothing.
Dan: Oh well do you have time to come and see me?
Me: I don’t want to bother you with your friends. It’s fine.
Dan: No one is here, please, just come over.
Me: I hope you have a good time. I know that’s what you really want.
I knew that was nothing he really wanted, but at the same time he wished he wanted it. I leave after this. I will run. I hate myself for ignoring him after that. My feet collided with the cold floor and I plopped down to lace my shoes. It was dark and cold, but I just wanted to leave.
I expected him to be there before I left. He wasn’t. I ran. I ran thinking that he would never be able to see me. Twenty minutes passed and I was moving down Douglas and saw his car. Move! Go faster. I can’t see him. I’ll turn. That’s what I will do. My feet lose control. Drunk. I have less now I am vulnerable. Down the Avenue. He is there again. I turn. He knows that I saw him. I hate myself. I have to go back eventually. I do. He is driving there and we see one another. I run. I can’t see him. Tears stream down my face and I give up. I fall. I lay on the soccer field sprawled out-crying.
I walk back. He stops me.
I don’t want to get in the car. No more talking. I hate you more with every word. I want you to just hold me.
He takes me to the car. I tell him that I hate him for drinking. That I can’t watch him lose control. I can’t. He promises that he will not, but he will not blame himself. It is me. I should of told him is what he told me. Speak? I won’t. He just gets angry.
He brings me in closer to convince me that it is okay. My body trembles at his touch.
Comatose.
He likes to drink. I hate it. I love him. He wants to get drunk to night-fine. I’ll hate him for it. I work all day with a smile. That’s how anger builds. When you can’t just let it go, and on top of that you have to act like you are the polar opposite- happy. I’ll let it go. He was mad at me, even though he says is was not. He is still. Angry, upset, worried. I laid in my bed for hours waiting for his text, and hoping that it would never come. I won’t answer is what I tell myself. Promise. Three hours go by while I stare at my phone waiting for the bright blue reflection to bounce off the inside of my sheets. I listen to the small ear buds that whisper all that I can hope from love, what whisper everything that I think is written for me. Of all the pressure that we put on her, seems we’ve lost her for good. She’ll never walk on water because no one really saw her. I just wanted to know what I was doing wrong. Why was I not good enough for him? He wants to go and be with his friends. They are everything that I could never be. I do not believe in what they do. They beg to lose control. I want all the control I can get.
LETS
GET
DRUNK…
His friends tell him that it is okay, and I cannot speak because I drown in my own fears, that he will leave me. Don’t leave. Please. Just go. Don’t be dumb. He does not care. The vibrations carry me away from thoughts of what I did wrong, what he will do wrong. My eyes stare at the blue light. I put on a face of resentment but it’s all that I wanted. My heart still jumped to know he was still thinking of me.
Dan: How was work gorgeous?
I did not respond. I waited for him to stop caring. To test him. I really don’t know why I waited. I did. I was cold and I wanted him to warm me, like he always did. I rubbed my calves and feet together while I was in the fetal position tangled in the sheets hoping that the friction could mimic his love. I’ll wait. I won’t text him. Promise?
Me: Fine.
Dan: Did you just get off?
Me: No like three hours ago.
Dan: Oh did you go out with your dad? Haha
Me: No he doesn’t have time.
Dan: Oh ic. What are you up to?
Me: Nothing.
Dan: Oh well do you have time to come and see me?
Me: I don’t want to bother you with your friends. It’s fine.
Dan: No one is here, please, just come over.
Me: I hope you have a good time. I know that’s what you really want.
I knew that was nothing he really wanted, but at the same time he wished he wanted it. I leave after this. I will run. I hate myself for ignoring him after that. My feet collided with the cold floor and I plopped down to lace my shoes. It was dark and cold, but I just wanted to leave.
I expected him to be there before I left. He wasn’t. I ran. I ran thinking that he would never be able to see me. Twenty minutes passed and I was moving down Douglas and saw his car. Move! Go faster. I can’t see him. I’ll turn. That’s what I will do. My feet lose control. Drunk. I have less now I am vulnerable. Down the Avenue. He is there again. I turn. He knows that I saw him. I hate myself. I have to go back eventually. I do. He is driving there and we see one another. I run. I can’t see him. Tears stream down my face and I give up. I fall. I lay on the soccer field sprawled out-crying.
I walk back. He stops me.
I don’t want to get in the car. No more talking. I hate you more with every word. I want you to just hold me.
He takes me to the car. I tell him that I hate him for drinking. That I can’t watch him lose control. I can’t. He promises that he will not, but he will not blame himself. It is me. I should of told him is what he told me. Speak? I won’t. He just gets angry.
He brings me in closer to convince me that it is okay. My body trembles at his touch.
Comatose.
Women Athletes
After reading Heywood's, Pretty Good for a Girl, and having a class discussion about Leslie, I wanted to I guess talk about women's athletics in comparison to men's athletics. I found Leslie to be really reliable, because I am a competitive runner, but I can see how many could not. It is a whole different world to compete in running and to run for pleasure. I don't mean to offend anyone on this comment (sorry if I do). It seems to me though that when ever a women athlete outshines the rest of the athletes on the course, court, field, etc. that she almost has to embody this male persona. It is extremely weird to me to look into the head of another female athlete, a runner in particular, and compare it to my own mind through athletic competition. It looks to me like Leslie uncovers this hidden testosterone, where winning is her only way out. It defines who she is. She no longer takes on a role as a female, she is an athlete, which often (I believe) is a term that can be confused with male. When people come to women's sporting events they are there to either A. cheer on there family members, or B. (which this is the one that pisses me off the most) to see "hot" girls in practically no clothes. I know I spoke about a website that I had stumbled upon when I was looking for a picture of one of my favorite runners. I went back to that website right after class. First off, the website was labeled 50 Hottest Women In Sports and the subtitle, get this, hours of training, dedication, toned bodies, tanned skins. Most, if not all, of the women where on the website in a bikini. This baffled me because I think three of them were winter sports women who lived in cold climates such as Aspen. Now I don't know that much about winter sports, but I think that a little more than just a bikini is needed to preform well. What made the most mad is that Victoria Beckham was on there and she was a freakin Spice Girl!!!! She never played any sport what so ever! Under the picture it said, "She does not play sports, but she David Beckham's (Soccer player) wife. Excuse me? What hours of training and dedication did it take to marry a soccer player? Oh none. That's what I thought. There was so much emphasis on what a women should look like from the result of playing sports (or the marrying to sports figures) more so then the actual action and hard work it takes to play sports. All of the pictures were photographs that were chosen by women athletes to take. So just like Heywood knowing she is beautiful and getting more attention for that, is the same thing that all outstanding female athletes do. They have to fit in to what will make them popular so that they will be watched and idolized and wanted. This is what they do. Another thing to compare this is that men athletes have pictures where they are sweating and preforming, beating someone, winning. Heywood embodied a male athlete because she wanted to be know for her running. I think it is wrong that females have to be this way and they have to be sexy to get signed to do there passion whereas men just throw a football OK and get signed to a college team (sorry I had to take a dig at Notre Dame). I know that it is hard for people who have not been in Heywood's position to sympathize, and it is hard to believe that women athletes think like this, but trust me behind all those toned bodies, and tanned skins is hard work and dedication that has to be hidden by a manly persona. This is how to get noticed, its not fair, but for now (until I become a major female athlete[haha]) this is the way it has to be done.
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