journal entry
the heat of the summer, the pressure of life, the corn on the stalks.
Whenever I find myself in the oppressive humidity of another man’s land I long for my dear Nebraska. Her prairie heat and her endless expanse. The sky and the brush burning together in an all out war. God putting up a painting, to ease the frustration of baking in the oven, day in and day out. Willa Cather said: “The only thing noticeable about Nebraska was that was, still, all day long, Nebraska.” I miss that consistency.
I am my own consistency now. It feels so far gone that I was a cretin in bars, doing shots with men who were washed up criminals. So long ago, that I would weep alone on the side of the road, and smoke cigarettes until 5am in an abandoned warehouse. I have picked my fig, and it is a lovely fig! May one day it turn into delicious cookies, or a perfect garnish on an interesting meal. If I am very lucky may it grow into a new fig tree, all the young ripe figs descended from the one I picked so many years ago. I want to plant a tree, but part of me is still so attached to the cretin I used to be… rootless and lonely. I never wanted to be my own consistency, I thought someone would see through my mistakes and recognize my potential. Now they’re telling me I need to do it all on my own.
To make matters worse, I am approaching decision time. Do I want the kids and the picket fence? To fulfill the natalist agenda and enter into petrescence — turn to stone and be the rock for a baby to latch to. My brother looked me in the eyes last weekend, “If you don’t have children I would feel very bad for you. What a waste, what a sad life.” My options are despair and waste, or pain and waste. No matter what I choose my body will decay and I will be seen as sad: a mother devalued by the culture, the society and her husband. Or, a tragic crone, alone, in the woods with no man who ever picked her. “What a shame, she was such a beautiful girl.” It doesn’t matter that I picked my fig and I chose to become something, to study something, to publish something. All the awards in the world wouldn’t grant me the privilege of being a person. One thing did though… when I was a cretin I was a person. A girl in a bar with stories, laughs, and friends whose names I didn’t know. Maybe that was a waste too, but it certainly was fun. Even if I can’t remember it.
I am so tortured by the idea of not ever being a person. Addicted to my status as “Other” I love my prison and resent my prison and I wish for a man to break me out of my prison. Again and again, I wish to be oppressed by that summer heat so I may forget that I am locked up in a female form. Desperate for love, desperate for eye contact that isn’t hungry for my body, but maybe a look that gently recognizes my mind. Then again, the pressure of being known would be a new chain that would drag behind me, wearing stripes, and wishing to be freed from his recognition. There is no way to win.
Time to take an exam I did not study for, to convince myself to eat a meal I do not want, and to take on another day. Maybe by noon I will be able to control my thoughts. Maybe if I wake up, take care, and live my little life… maybe then I could find a way to win.
