Today I could:
Go chill in the garden, dig a hole, read a book, chase the dogs. Hunt some cows, dress up, paint a shed, write the first chapter of my next novel. Do something about that pile of ironing, get tinder, carve a pumpkin, or just…
Category Archives: Uncategorized
tba
Know the feeling?
Force ripe? Don’t worry, be happy!
There I was in the supermarket the other day, minding my own business, squinting at the price of fruit n veg, when along comes this child – she could have been no older than seven – her mother not too far behind. She takes in my shorts, my high heel boots, exclaims:
oh, sexy!
to which everyone within earshot suddenly turns round and, having identified the source of the remark, erupts into unanimous laughter. The girl herself, she had not intended to be funny, laughs too after a while. I wouldn’t call it copying, I think they call it social referencing.
Me? I only smiled, surprised by the fact that a child so young even knew the meaning of the term ‘sexy’. Should I be happy or worried? This child did not only know her abc, or (no doubt?) that a yellow M towering above all the buildings around meant this way for a quick, cheap meal! (that is, until she learns that it also meant obesity, diabetes and so on). This child had already picked up other social symbols as well;
shorts + long legs + high heels = sexy
I was not aware that I was a walking symbol in that respect. All I wanted was to stock up my fridge. Children have their specs on whether we know it or not and possibly whether they know it or not. She too force ripe is what my grandmother would have concluded, her voice thick with disapproval, but in this day and age when around the clock and everywhere your eyes turn, allusions to sex are used to sell just about everything (barring dog food, for now…), is it any wonder?
And I wonder whether, instead of simply chastising, it would not be far more effective for us, the grown-up chaperones, to steer children’s visual intelligence to a more critical understanding of cultural symbols. Oh, and to practise what we preach.
This post has also appears in my blog on educational research.
Not just
Better Half
whenever I read a woman’s profile and the first thing she has to say is how adorable her husband is, makes me want to: puke
Nope. It’s not jealousy. I’d just find her so much more interesting if she had something positive to say about herself.
carved in stone
Guess whose name is up there for all to see?
Does this mean I’m kind of famous?
(at least till the building gives way for a multistorey car-park???)
Thank you, Goldsmiths. Thanks for the excellent supervision of my PhD. Thanks for some of the best years of my life. Thanks for awarding me a scholarship. You gave me so much. I’m glad to be able to give something back (last name, penultimate column).
I
I am a thousand different wings
lanes & games
I
dancethedance of pepper thorns
I
give in to the lilts of end/less/ness
frame to change & color & suffocate & bother &
(illustration: Naomi Brosnan)
Boy Queen
In the morning when I coyed your skin
it felt
like velvet fur
your Nubian lips glossed
by the yolk
of the rising sun.
You made me sigh
I made you
cry…
you showed me all your graces
your fire and desire
you made me sigh…
I
made you cry but
kissed such
tears
away.
Wearing on mine
your pith turned child
beautiful bright boy
my prince
some being born out of the
queen in flight
dark
as the night was warm
was thinly clothed
with shy whispers
crumpled by the
wrath of sheets.
You showed me the
soft side
the
dark side
showed me
the wildcat
poised
beneath that
African pride…
disclosed your
every shade
of woman
to my man
who kissed away
lone tears
who cradled that
fragility till anxiety had
faded
bodies cascading
in moments
stretched
to years
(from The Red Room)
Moon
CLEAR NIGHT
Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
on the side deck and the threshold, the white keys
and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I wanted to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean
And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death,
say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.
(Clear Night, by Charles Wright)
First discovered this poem on Amy Jo Sprague’s blog. The second stanza ‘throes’ me. Re-re-re-read. Like the title, the light/dark tango of it which I grew to love in the paintings of Magritte. Second stanza: re-read.
Full moon recently. Pulls in more ways than one:
TRAMP
I want to feel your nose in my lips
your nails in my flesh
your teeth on my hips
your breath in my face
your tongue –
wherever it fits…
I want to feel your dick in my ass
you come in my throat
you spit on my skin
your balls beat me raw…
your hand pin me down
and Master me
Freak? Me?
I want to hear you moan
groan
whimper
I want to see pain on your face
delight
abandon
release…
Rough me
ride me to a froth
burn me
whip me with your Man till
I spit blood
And I?
Will bathe you with the purity
of my softest womanhood
till I
oil you
rim
purring with gratitude…
But first, you polish me
if you want to see my genie
If you want to see me shine.
(from, The Red Room by Joan Barbara Simon)
Joan stays locked in when the moon’s out. Need I say why? And no, it doesn’t wear off with age. It gets worse, cos you’re still interested but who’s still interested in you? I’ve been giving my ex-wives tips on how to pull a bloke on the internet. So much for you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. If I were twenty years younger, I’d open a brothel for senior citizens of both sexes, say seventy and upwards. These mature specimens of the human animal’ve got the finish line in sight, cash in their pockets, assorted ailments to forget, if only for that moment… and ungrateful brats as offspring. Above all, thirst. It’d be a runner. Especially with the women. With my neighbour for starters. I’m not taken in by her impenetrable purple rinse, her 40den tights, the orthopedic shoes or the slight limp, she’s no nice-nelly, take my word for it; course, no one’s been near her labia minora for decades but she was a real old slag in her day. Brittle hips weren’t her problem back then, I know a few who’ll vouch for that! When she did what she termed the fandango on your ramrod guess what else she clung to, calling them her castanets? Said she had him steaming like a horse after a hard race. The way she looks at me even today. Teeth tarnished. Slack wet slit where her mouth should be. Gives me the creeps. She’d pay. Bet she would.
