A goodbye.

I'm not sure about posting for a while.

Everything we go through in life is "personal", yet I've never had a problem completely exposing my "personal life" to whoever wants to read. Mostly because writing helps me to learn and if I can shed light on similar situations in other people's lives that might help them to learn something, too... well hell, that's a wonderful thing. And if what I'm going through or feel like expressing/talking about is completely different than whoever's reading, that's fine too. I think it's great to be open to the unfamiliar. But all the reasons why I have this blog aside, lately I've been asking myself a really important question. How much do I do for myself?

I don't know if this blog is really mine. Actually, I don't think it is. I write it, and sometimes I go back and read what I write, but this blog is really here for other people to read...under some strange assumption that I write things worth reading. This blog is here for people to learn or question or grow because of me. But this blog is not mine. It's yours. And lately, I haven't felt like my life is mine because I'm willing to give it to everyone and anyone who wants it.

But right now there's too much questioning and growing and learning going on inside of myself to give it to whoever wants it without keeping some for myself.

Some things really should be personal.

Maybe I'll be back. Maybe not. Time will tell. If not, it's been whatever you've made of it.

Fond thoughts, Rachael

the female artist in despair

My last poetry class today took a look at a few poems by men and women who were discussing the same topic, but the different ways in which the subject was talked about, and then which poem the "editors" of the text thought was of "more poetic merit". Most of the time, the man's poem was considered more meritorious. (I mean, the living white man's poetry is going to be closer than the woman's to the dead white man's model that is considered "great".) The only times when the woman's poem was considered more meritorious by the editors was a few instances when the poem spoke of such despair and genuine disaster, that the comparison couldn't even try to match it.

After class I was thinking about how there have been many many woman artists who "live in dispair", and perhaps this is what has allowed their voice to be heard and not written off. From Joni Mitchell, to Ani DiFranco, to Frida Kahlo, to both Emily Dickenson and Adrinne Riche... the essence of each of these women is very sorrowful, yet fulfilled in knowing that there may be no answers to their desperation. Their art is their freedom and redemption.

At her last exhibition in Mexico, Frida told reporters, "I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy as long as I can paint". Also, "My painting carries with it the message of pain.....Painting completed my life.....I believe that work is the best thing."

What a perfect depiction of such a dismal yet contented femal artist.

There have been many male artists who fall under the same descriptions. However, they do not have to fall under this category to be recognized and regarded as "great". Perhaps it takes a woman to go through the deepest and darkest despirations in order to be respected or acknowledged in a man's literary or artistic world.

If a woman becomes recognized outside of this torn description, will there ultimately be some wide spread way in which she will still be degraded? (Too manly or not tough enough, too easy or too prude, too opinionated or too ambivilant, too self-fulfilling or too needy, too peppy or too angry.) I mean just look at all of the most famous women who produce some sort of "art" in this area, from Britany Spears (too easy), to Oprah Winfrey (too self-fulfilling), to Ellen Degeneres (too manly), to Katie Couric (too peppy), Alainis Morressette (too angry.). It seems that the woman who have eventually been respected, are the woman who were deeply torn, distraught, sad, and with art as their only escape. Through the toughest and most genuine dispair may a woman gain respect in the realm of what is considered "art", and perhaps this is, or has been the only way.

Or maybe the effort just isn't taken to criticize the "too forlorn". Perhaps every kind of art will in some way be criticized for no reason better than being misunderstood. Male of female. But I think that true, honest, and raw sadness are subjects that people are willing to sympathize with and even respect. The deepest longings cannot be written off, regardless of sex or race, because perhaps that sorrow is something residing and living within us all.



Rebuttal? Ideas? Opinions? Feel free. Share.

you're so silly.

remnants of dried up brown sugar oatmeal
crust the corners of my yellow and orange crock.

the clock on my desk is seven minutes
faster than the rest of the clocks that are
right.

my cuticles are pushed back but not clipped
and i've bitten half the skin off my thumbs

but my hands are clean because my
suitemates are sick
and cough on the bathroom door
so i wash with soap in the sink

i can feel the rose on my cheeks recently
kissed by his lips before he went
down
the elevator
and rode his retro bike to class

cozy under the covers my roommate
sleeps in her underwear as i hover over a florecent
computer with notes in my ears that fill
eyes with tears
but not mine
not today

ouch. my stomach hurts. i ate
too much pizza
grease and acid and spices and soon
my stomach gets mad and
forms a ball as hard as a rock
don't move, rachael
you cannot move
inert and fat

oh, but it's been over a week and
i finally drank coffee flavored
for the holiday
and i feel warm inside and
jittery

remnants of a normal day
make thoughts that wake my fingers and
click click click the keyboard to
share a few silly words:

spaghetti, ....

or just one silly word.