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Hooray for Boobies & Other Fat Lady Tales

✏ 38 year old cis female ✏ Fat ✏ Married ✏ Crazy Cat Lady ✏ Opinionated ✏ Swear-ey ✏ All caps silliness ✏ occasional pretendy writer ✏ LJ immigrant ✏ Journaling since 2006 ✏ Ex chatroom /forum role player ✏ Now on Tumblr ✏
elf_fu: (AvelineIsSexy)
I used to keep paper journals when I was very young. Mostly there were diaries where I whined about the unfairness of it all, raged against my parents, about being fat, shook my fist to the sky, complained no one understood me and wrote horribad poetry. (Which I still do, but that's besides the point.) I had binders full of whiny writing too, which, frankly, I am glad did not survive past my early twenties and are forever lost to several moves.

However, I found one of my paper journals with its first entry in 2004. Even then, going through and reading some of the things I wrote made me cringe as well as physically recoil from some of the pages. How utterly selfish I was, how terribly young, how horrifically awkward, how hateful and spiteful. It is also almost beautiful--only because I can look at it and be appalled at what I was and happier at what I have become. A visible marker of where I went from some stupid little git to a half way decent, if but flutter-brained human being. It is also a reminder of how much further I still have to go.

So many of these pages were and are just childish anger. Still too much of a teenager even in my twenties. Things written to be spiteful, hateful, as if the person I was most angry with would pick the book up one day and I'd hoped to stab them in the face with every single word I wrote. Anger, and glamorized lies instead of the plain, boring truth. Writing to make myself seem so much better than I was.

The problem with me keeping, or trying to keep a paper journal IS how easy it is to lie to myself. The only one accountable for my tale is me. No one sets eyes on those physical pieces of paper. No one reads them but me. No one who knows me, currently could see any of the lies or embellishments, selfishness or pouty-mc-stupid-angry writing and take me aside and go, "whoa, whoa Mel. Really? Is that REALLY what happened? Or are you just making it sound that way?" I can paint my villains as black as I like and no one would know the horrible mean nasty baddie was really just an old lady in the grocery store line that made me wait a little longer so it pissed me off and I decided to write seven pages of BLECH and YECH about it.

You see, there's no one to screen shot a paper journal. There's no one to document my fuckery and call me out on it but myself. We're prone to be selfish creatures. It's in our nature. The things in our head become askew. No one will flip a page, put a finger on a line and, calmly, with love and respect call me out on my shit.

It's not like here, where even if the posts are friends locked and up for a split second before retracted--someone somewhere, sees it (unless it's private, but I digress). There are eyes watching, and while not necessarily judging--like your family at turkey dinner, your friends are all seeing the shenanigans you pull and are quick to level you one of those looks to keep you mostly in line. And sans gravy all over your face. Someone's bound to read it.

Yet, despite all of that...There were parts in this journal so ugly I had to take them out. Like splinters you forget about until they start to make you uncomfortable, some pages simply felt wrong. Uncomfortable. They did not belong in my life anymore. They were splinters under my skin that if I had left them, they would have brought back an infection I didn't need nor want to fight off again.

So I sharpied out the childish that hid the adult, tore out the lies, the scribbled junk that held no more meaning. I found some beautiful and decided to keep it. I found, written maybe last year or the year before:
"I wish there was a way to tear our all of our secrets like book pages.

Maybe the wind would come, scatter them all to different hands and we'd realize that we're not so different. And we're never alone."


I think there's a picture of that floating around here on live journal. I added beneath it:
"I tear out pages of this book like women tear out their own hearts for old lovers, tear at their breasts in mourning, their hair, the eyes of their most hated in dark alleyways.

Time changes us so much. My words and my dark alleyways have changed."


If I ever go back to a paper journal, I hope that I can be honest. I hope that I can be more of a wavering, tiny light in a small space instead of a darkened scribble of no import, easily forgotten.
elf_fu: (Default)
Seed Eater
She wishes to know if I am oh-kay,
if I am doing well, smiling over the rim of a tea-cup like jackals with secrets.
Persephone gets caught in my teeth
every time I think of some answer.
Trapped in rows of off-white winter bone,
she wriggles around in my old lady gums,
cursing, shouting, kicking--
our mouths are epic ballads of lies in the name of not-worrying-anyone.
Then they worry us to death.

The Hades made out of all of our lies:
Everything's great! We're all great! Everyone is fine!
keeps pulling her back down into the earth of my heart.
Where no one knows I have eaten a seed of myself.

Demeter, howling for her lost child dies,
like doves crushed in cruel children's hands.
elf_fu: (noideawhatsgoinon)
NaPoWriMo #11
Straddling between,
neither old enough for children to form a daisyhand chain around her middle,
nor slim enough to be greedily clutched by sticky-fingered toddlers.
The oak outside my window peacefully bides her time through awkward phases;
her babyfat-round top with too-skinny bark legs perhaps as startled
at the gathering crowd of admiring acorns at her feet as I am.



NaPoWriMo #12
Dried sunflowers in a bed of sun-warmed sand,
dandelion fluff soft, occasional clucks and an affectionate ear cleaning.
Birds are the feather dusters of my heart.
elf_fu: (muppetWTF)
I couldn't possibly write a poem today.
I'm all out of words. They rebelled, you see.
Picked up the last description I had for a sword,
cut through all of my cliche's about beautiful hair and,
love and life and sweet things that are supposed to move people.
They scissor-legged straight through all hopes of writing an epic,
dented a knights armor with a stiff letter R,
then ran into a Princess and stole her tiara.
After, they had a little party with a few mad hatters I haven't even written about,
wearing the tiara and wielding a horrible haiku I never meant to let the light of day touch.

So I couldn't possibly write a poem today.
I've got to duel the letter T,
to get back a princess,
to find where they put that damn haiku,
and to save the letter R.
elf_fu: (Default)
We who have stepped on your chests
at four a.m with tiny feet that hold no mists,
purring fish-breath into your faces,
and mewed pitifully for food despite the fact our round bellies are wider than your heads—

We who have heard you cry,
muffled by your hands to your face,
your handkerchief to your nose,
and your music turned up to hide the sounds of sobbing, we come trotting to you anyway.
Tail up. Eyes bright. We plant ourselves before you and in your hearts—

We who have watched you build pyramids,
have had kings bow their heads low, leave us rats of the tastiest caliber,
and watch over the ghosts of once was and what will be—

We who you have rejected.
Tossed aside, abandoned in parking lots and filthy alleys,
starved in cages,
beaten and set fire to,
cried for your attention and been ignored,
loved you for it anyway because you are all that we know—

Remember us.
The sound of our joy when we first met one thousand years ago,
a rumble of pleasure in our throats at just your slightest touch.

Remember us,
for we have never forgotten you.

What Mel has eaten today. )

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elf_fu: (Default)
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May 2017

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