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12.04.2001
This is no longer my journal. You may email me for my new journal address.
Instead, I am pleased to announce the creation of my writing project. Should you feel inspired to try the same and post your results online, email me your page and I'll link you up. This page is now my practice forum. I will try every other day, if not daily, to post a writing exercise I either did as a break during my ever so difficult work day, or at home. Today's topic is t-shirts.
As a rule, I will never write for more than ten minutes, and I'll only edit typos (if I even do that). Other than that, what's written here is what flies from my fingers, no crossing out, deleting, making it sound better. Sometimes, I may not even complete a sentence. Sometimes, I'll type "keep the pen moving" even though I'm on a computer (sometimes on a computer). This is raw writing, practicing naked...may we all be blessed with nudity!
t-shirts
I've been watching a lot of mtv. I'm jealous of the sparkly bellies with the beautiful rings and the tight titty shirts with glitter adorning the chest. I wonder briefly how I'd look in one of those. Would I get second glances? Would someone want my number? Would I, could I, actually look good in that silly little thing?
I see myself strutting about, my perky nipples protruding in the air like the flags at the start of a walking battle. Here I come, ready or not. I once did not wear bras. For almost a year. But then I gave a Nietzsche presentation. I applied his work to Kafka's "In the Penal Colony." I stood in front of the class wearing a long sleeved 100% cotton v-neck t-shirt I bought at Weathervane for $7.99. My breasts have odd, bottle-necked shapes that change every so often to ketcup-bottle shapes and standing in front of those men and women, their eyes crazy focussed on my rendition of Kafka's torture machine, I felt too aware of my breasts. Balls of joy. Flesh that bounces gaily when I run and I think to myself, "Aha! I do have breasts. All mine. Breasts!" These t-shirts...for my breasts...for my once flat stomache, adored by all. The six pack. The nine pack. The short running shorts at track practice in high school and now: too short unless I want to shave my bikini line. Not to mention the new "six pack"--magic hat number 9.
The t-shirts only match the flared bell-bottom-like jeans with sparkly words on the ass like "Ride Me" or "Cow Girl" or "Princess." No princess for me. I want mine to say "Hot Ass, Don't You Think? Please tell me yes. It will boost my self-esteem." Levi may charge an arm and a leg, however, to place that many rhinestones on the ass of jeans only ten year olds wear. Not that I wore them when I was ten.
No, when I was ten I skipped school to walk around Brockton wearing the new shoes I got from St. Paul's Church on Easter. High heels. White high heels with strappy straps, the kind I loved during prom in high school. I had worn them to school and was told I had to take them off, so I didn't go to school the next day. Instead, I walked around with two friends, whom I can't remember now, and we trotted with our purses stuffed full of pennies, mail, candy and in my case: lightbulbs (anything to make it look bigger). We walked by the "alternative" school across the street and listened to the boys hoot and holler at our ten year old legs (actually... I was eight. It was third grade. I had lightbulbs). They hollered, we giggled, we fled. It was a day of womanhood.
When I baked too long in the sun when I was fifteen, I wore a cotten dress to school the next day. Skinny straps. All white. Cotton-ribbed. No bra; it would have hurt. I was selfish in the sun and of course, with my eyes burning red, couldn't see the red on my skin. Sean Daley looked at me in Algebra II/Trig class and say, "Whoa. You look so innocent in the little white dress." What he meant was "I can see your little ten-year-old looking breasts."
Perhaps I shouldn't try on those t-shirts. But actually, it could get me sex. With my lover. Who always wears t-shirts under every other shirt. Sometimes, he wears two t-shirts. Hmmmm...
the end.
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currently reading:
Grendel, by John Gardner
mood of the day:
the gorgeous weather makes me feel gorgeous indeed. Keep it coming!
I have a wish list
Natalie Goldberg
"Go for the jugular!"
I am grateful for:
1. stuffed peppers
2. kind people in restrooms
3. dance instructors who read
4. playboy
5. wrist pads
You can read the full details below and get the elusive "why."
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