figures of speech

[first, some introductory reading. this post won't make much sense until you read this.]

i am a writer. obviously; you're reading words i've committed to the internet age's version of the pagefor public consumption. as a writer, i pride myself on being able to paint pictures with words, using every color of my linguistic rainbow to tell my stories. i tell them in a variety of venues and formats, both digital and analog. sometimes, my stories aren't so pretty. i use language, metaphors and images that aren't meant for family time. i write of violence, twisted sexuality and other horrors of the soul. i like to explore darkness in my writing, because frankly, most people are a lot darker than they'd like to let on. i find the contrast between light and dark twinned with the contrast between public and private fascinating. (so do a lot of people; otherwise, dexter would never have been on television for five-plus seasons.)

but because i have chosen to write these things, i've often had to conjure images that are as harrowing as any true-crime report. i've imagined scenarios that wouldn't make the cut for law and order: SVU. like the writer in the article above, i've occasionally struggled with the morality of this sort of writing. darkness is an intrinsic part of the human condition, but in writing it, do we elevate it, or simply expose it for the evil that it is? is the dichotomy i imagine even a dichotomy at all? can you even get a satisfactory answer to these questions?

in the end, i think the answer to all of this is to be mindful with our art, our language. as writers, we owe a special duty to the society we reflect to do it as truthfully and authentically as we can. in the end, though we agonize over it, it's not the fault of writers that horrors exist in the world. all we can do is show as much respect to the reality we interpret when we work our craft. but when i go off-duty, so to speak, and revert to my regular, casual life, i can certainly control this a lot more. i can take the edge off my dark depictions by making damn sure that i work to create a world that doesn't have as much darkness in it.

the phrase [bad thing] totally raped me should never leave anyone's mouth, unless of course the bad thing in question is an act of sexual battery. we can stop, for the love of all things sacred and holy, venerating charlie sheen as a comic genius instead of treating him like the unapologetic woman-beating drug addict that he is. we can teach our kids how to sexually respect themselves and each other. for that matter, we can stop being so god-awful afraid of sexuality in our culture. no one would be demonized for dressing too sexy if we could get a handle on sexual expression and normalize it.

but that's a rant for another time. the point in all of this is simple: writers aren't the only people who should be aware of the power, the glory and the dangerous heft of their words. words aren't mere figures of speech. the things we say form the world we inhabit. by god, we need to make damn sure we build a world worthy of ourselves. we need to report the truth, we need to lay horrors bare for what they are. choose your words - your weapons - carefully.

baubles

one of the side effects of being a hardcore, intense football fan is that i watch a lot of sports on TV. this time of year, that means i see one HELL of a lot of jewelry commercials. nothing makes me stabbier, except for maybe that god-awful hyundai commercial with the twee-pop indie freaks. (i won't link to them. they're too famous as it is. GAAH.)

now, don't misunderstand me. i am a HUGE fan of jewelry. i like me some sparklies. i am well-known for throwing on sweats and flip-flops (or snow boots in this weather), no makeup and hair all thrown back into pigtails, but with a perfectly-matched necklace and earrings. i am a connoisseur of swarovski crystal, turquoise and sterling silver.

but oy, do these jewelry commercials reduce relationships to so much patriarchal pablum. the women in these ads are simpering fools; the guys are smug paternalists, riding in to SAVE THE DAY with a glinting bride-price. the worst offenders, by far, are kay jewelers and their just god-awful two hearts (or as the boyfriend calls them, the two asses - go back and look at them again; you'll see) collection. either that or the "zomg, it's raining, save me, o strong man, for i am a weak and spineless girl-child!" one.

it's enough to make you want to join a radical wymynist collective or something. seriously. can't the people in these commercials just, y'know, give each other gifts like normal human beings, without the women looking like tiny children and the men looking like purchasers of more than just jewelry? come on, folks. real women with brains are so much more fun than airheaded simpletons. and smart women appreciate gifts too. we just don't gape over them like deer in headlights. it's way more fun to win a woman's heart when she's your equal.

mutilation

i'm seeing black swan tonight. not gonna lie; i'm pretty excited about this. i like to read reviews of movies that pique my interest, usually from the new york times or the washington post. when a smart publication raves about a movie, it makes me that much more excited to see it (and conversely, when a movie gets panned in that kind of review, it disappoints me that i was even interested in the first place).

but the one theme i keep noticing about this movie is the heavy emphasis all the articles place about the self-injury that runs like a river through the whole thing, apparently. look, folks, this is a movie about the upper echelon of professional ballet. it may look pretty, but that is a brutal, harsh, cutthroat and, yes, painful world. hell, when we were teenagers dancing for fun, we used to have a saying: "the more it hurts, the more you smile." (some of us know this well, don't we? one word: mazurka.) so multiply that by about a million once you get to the top of the top. competitors in physical disciplines hurt themselves. we talk about how honorable football players are when they sacrifice mobility for the final fifty years of their lives to be successful in their twenties. but it's funny how the discourse on ballerinas has such a psychodramatic twist, eh? no one calls what defensive tackles do to themselves "self-mutilation," but doesn't it end the same?

now, in the case of the movie, it's clear that this is supposed to be a descent-into-madness thing. i get it. but the whole women and self-injury thing has me thinking. men, when things go sideways in their lives, always get portrayed as lashing out at others. you know the image: dad loses his job at the plant, gets drunk and beats mom into oblivion. but when a woman is hurting, she's always shown as taking it out on herself. papa roach notwithstanding (and i apologize for even bringing that song up), men are not often cutters. women are. why?

i think it's cultural. we're trained to view aggression and anger as male emotions, and thus only men are "allowed" to express them freely. we all know the cultural vocabulary for angry women: ball-busters. bra-burners. (for the LAST time, NO ONE BURNED BRAS. can someone PLEASE teach sarah palin et al to READ?) bitches. words i won't even use that slur women both straight and gay. so what do we do? women swallow anger. we tamp down rage, frustration, disappointment. finally, though, you can't swallow any more; it's coming out one way or another. and all too often, it comes out with the swift, savage pull of a blade across our own skin. the pain, the blood, the action itself brings a form of release, the only way to manifest the darkest recesses without running up against taboos bigger than ourselves.

we've come a long way, baby, as the old cigarette ads used to say. (and the fact that i remember when cigarette ads provided pop-culture memes shows that i'm getting old.) but we haven't come far enough to allow women to just be mad in public. the whole "mama grizzly" thing back in '08 wasn't real anger; it was a stylized temper fit designed to market an ideology. you ever see those women do anything from a place of rage? nope. that's because it's not allowed. if we really want to claim a victory for fairness for everyone, we can make it okay for every person to be healthily angry in the way he or she sees fit. that way, we can eliminate this whole sad cycle of lashing out, either at ourselves or others. maybe then it won't be an issue anymore.

modern love

i have always thought of myself as a modern woman, a total feminist, liberated in every sense of the word. i'm a career woman (or at least i will be when i get out of school), a sports fan, the whole nine. but it's weird; every so often, i get the urge to get just a tiny bit traditional. y'know, cooking, cleaning, etc. so today, as i sat on the couch with my man and his friends, i watched football, drank, and held my own in all manner of discussions on lebron james, eli manning, and whether the redskins were pathetic or just outclassed.

but i also, without any help from the boys, fixed an entire dinner for them. i brought beer to them, laid out their plates, the whole nine yards. i do this from time to time; i get a weird charge out of being a well-rounded woman (brains and domesticity all in one package!). but it's strange how this guy brings out this instinct in me. when i was in my old relationship, i HATED to cook. dear god, it was such a chore. and it's not like my workload was that much different then than it is now. quite the contrary. but with a new man, a new group of people in my life, and a new outlook on things, i find myself so much more willing to do things like this.

there's a lot of argument in this world about what it means to be a feminist, a liberated woman, etc., etc., etc. i've never been too interested in laying down a definition of appropriate "feminist bona fides." i've always felt like the whole point of being pro-woman is embracing the just infinite menu of choices in this world available to men and allowing that same menu of choice to be available to women at the same time. so i guess it's that same openness that allows me to get into good-natured yelling matches with my man's friends about sports, then turn around and serve them dinner with no issues.

this is modern love. this is modern life. a woman can, and should, stand her ground in her choices, no matter what they are. own who you are in front of the people you love. it's the best way to be true to yourself, and it's the most feminist stand you can take. bake a cake. shoot a gun. cheer like hell for your favorite football team (WHODAT!). just be who you are. if he's a real man, he won't be scared of anything you do. he'll love you all the more for being open, free and honest.

and if he's a keeper, he'll do the dishes. mine did. :)