My Beautiful Lovelies
My beautiful lovelies. My precious babies. All I can hope for is for both of you to be wonderful people. To be able to stand up for yourselves, to love instead of hate, to respect unless disrespected, to experience love and heartbreak and love again, to find something you truly enjoy doing and to be happy and accepting of who you are. There's so much I want for you both, but so much I'm unable to give you. Sometimes I feel sorry that I might not be competent enough for a mother for you guys but, regardless, I try my best everyday. I hope that you guys are able to live long lives, but secretly I feel guilty for birthing you two into a dying world.
You guys are far too young to have caused me any disappointments, but I'm overloaded with my own for not being able to start you guys off with the life I hoped I could. I promised myself that I would never bring either of you into this world in the same situation that I was in, but I failed to keep it. I'm sorry I couldn't do better. Not just me, but your father too, are doing everything we can to make sure you guys can spend the rest of your childhood in a place we were never able to spend ours.
All I can truly wish for is the happiness for my beautiful lovelies.
I SPy wiTH my LiTtle eYe
One life to live. Me and my story. How can I see it any other way? You are no longer here to hear about what you did to me, or observe the scars. If you were, would you care? What does it matter? Red is the color of blood, divided by air is the color of nothing, and I am the only one still breathing so where is the evidence?
Why didn't you just get in the car and go rob a bank, or pull out a six gun out of thin air and shoot me in the head? Every day I get to wake up and remind myself to be grateful that you didn't, and then I go about my day singing a song that you never heard, so who exactly is it that has the last laugh?
But I was not there when you were burned at the stake, when you swore that you would never do to me what they did to you. Unanswered questions are like unread fortune cookies, fine print thrown out in the trash, along with the chopsticks and brown bag stained with grease.
It's okay. I forgive you. There is no time to waste on the past, not even a nanosecond, because if I do, I remain guilty.
Re: “Frankly My Dear...” The rough draft Gut Spillage I’m not deleting this time because I finally posted it in the right challenge
AKA: dissecting the layers of a way too personal interpretation of Gone With The Wind.
Gone With The Wind is one of my all time favorite movies.
My husband introduced me to it.
I'd somehow gone 16 years of existence without the sheer pleasure of that film, and for remedying that oversight of God Almighty's I'll always love the bastard.
The thing is, I always knew that I was in madly love with Rhett Butler, from the very first watch.
I am totally his Eugenie; his baby girl.
But the other thing is, his baby girl dies.
It's not Rhett's fault she has to die.
He was doing the best for her that he knew how; spoiling her rotten with far too much love.
Dead, that child.
That living breathing sweet child of his what loved in the purest way anything ever has. Plum dead from too much love. From being forced to die or grow up. It's nobody's fault.
It's nobody's fault.
Okay then I think, through my far too grownup tears, through my hormone drenched, life loving, tock clicking since I was born tears... maybe I can't love him anymore as a daughter, maybe I need a Rhett Buttler of my own.
I earnestly thought that my husband was Rhett. My very own Rhett. How I loved him. How I loved him so much I'd jump off the edge of a world I loved just to be kept in his cage.
But he thought I was Scarlett. That bitch Scarlett. That crazy bint who needed him but wasn't capable of love. That's not me.
He thought all women of a fuckable age were her, and nothing would convince him contrary to his contrariwise nature.
It was a painful revelation; a revelation of more than a decade condensed into the past week; realizing the river ran the other way around...
I was Rhett. He was Scarlett.
Yes what a needy selfish bitch of a man on the inside he was.
(So what I'm Rhett. Why can't I embody the thing I love?)
But... the thing which separates me from being Rhett (apart from other more pleasantly obvious biological distinctions) is that I could never say the line he's born to say, the thing that soul-dead bitch deserves to hear even more than he needs to be kissed, (and he needs to be kissed so badly, often, and by someone who knows how)
That line, that brilliant line that only a true man can say:
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
Yep that's it. right there. the separation. The thing which makes me terminally female and a true man-lover. I could never not give a damn. I could try, I could try, how I want.... but I couldn't. It's not in me to not give a damn. I give so much damn it just comes out at random intervals sometimes: "damn, goddamn. Damn and fucking damn again. I always knew I never knew."
Not unless my inner child died all over again could I ever say that testosterone-drenched wildly-masculine line.
I know now what Rhett didn't; I know now not to spoil the children who love you. Not to teach them to live in a dream, and instead teach them to dream in a life.
So then I realized the truth of it, the character I embody more than any other in that film, the one I can be, and be successfully; I'm Mammy.
I care so much; I give so much damn, that I'd stay a voluntary slave after slavery is abolished.
And it's not quite because I don't know any other way. I'm smart, I can see the other ways clear as bell. It's just that I've realized that it's not in the cards for me to be loved as a woman.
But I can be loved as the rampantly maternal giver that I am. I can be seen there. And that's one heck of a swell consolation.
I don't need my Rhett-shaped silhouette to love me anymore.
All I really really need is that despicably beautiful red petticoat: Recognition from the real Rhetts of the world. I'll be forever grateful for those loving glances from the worlds I can't have.
So, here's that poem I posted before and then deleted because it didn't come close to saying everything I needed to say:
Alternative Endings: Take 3: Confessions of a Born-Again Cuddleslut:
Clark's raising the Gable-stop,
Slipping hands like sable
In between each table-top...
Catching breath when able.
I could hug most anything;
Meld in through the pores;
Licking souls until they sing
When knotted in their cores...
He wants to lose and tries to win;
I've felt his very bones.
I love so hard it must be sin.
I need his stick and stones.
I'm thrilling from his callouses;
That conscience of a man.
I showed him life's sweet chalices.
He gave me all his damn.
Summer Fall Winter Spring
There is a Van Gogh painting of a wheat field with cypresses (1889). A sky full of curvy clouds touch the tips of trees above a golden field. I used to be afraid of my father. Even old and frail now, he is a towering, oppressive figure that dominates whatever space he occupies. In that painting, though it is of beauty, I only see those trees casting their long shadows on the foliage below, and I am reminded of when I was a child with no sun.
I used to hate my mother. Having suffered a great loss at a young age, She feared that at any moment the worst was to come. We were sheltered to the point of severe naivety, and bullied ruthlessly in school for it. It also did not help that we were poor. Everyday they would make fun of my cheap shoes, oversized jeans, and mended backpacks.
I used to want to die. I remember one day I got jumped in the bathroom after school by three big bullies. I was a small kid bleeding on the sticky bathroom floor. My new watch that I was so incredibly proud of was shattered. I got into the car, and the only thing my dad noticed was the watch, and he said that I did not deserve nice things.
I used to love watching samurai movies. We lived in public housing. Our back porch extended out to an undeveloped land. I had a knife. I left as soon as he dropped me off. I knew my mom would notice, and I did not want to explain what happened as she smothered me with her anxiety. I hiked up the road to where there was a secret trail that the homeless used to drink and do drugs. There was a lake. At the edge lilies grew. I sat down on my feet, put the knife in front of me, and took off my shirt. The first stab left a red mark above the navel, but it did not penetrate. The second stab cut a little of the skin, but not by much. I steeled myself, tensed my muscles, and with a loud scream I … could not do it.
I used to want to have kids. Now as an adult I have come to realize that the broken things inside of me will never heal, and I may inflict the same horror on my child. With me will die that cycle, and when this husk finally fails, I hope that it will be used as tinder for a bright and warm fire, instead of emitting that same cold of a forlorn dark I had come to know.