A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || January 20, 2009 || 2:22 am

Er, ahh, hey.

Let me explain to you why I’m wearing bunny ears.

All week I have been tearing out and rearranging and giving away or repurposing or donating. I found the bunny ears haphazardly tossed into a big silver plastic bin that I’d mentally stenciled “TO BE SORTED LAST, BECAUSE I REALLY CAN’T BE BOTHERED.” They were near the top, so on my head they went. They are light brown, floppy and soft, the sort of ears that I imagine I’d wish for myself were I indeed actually a rabbitcreature. In the midst of sorting the silver tub I lost interest and decided to move some furniture about. Please don’t be exasperated with me for quitting that damned silver tub….I threw things away and donated some of its contents, leaving less than when I started. I think that is acceptable progress on so torturous a task.

So one of the things I was moving was the hope chest (I think I’m finally ready to call it a blanket chest; the only problem is that there are a whole lot of paper goods in there but not one single blanket); before I did that I had to move the stereo and a stack of ceedees and a couple of journals from its top.

Of course, with the top barren, it should be opened for a little peek and….I’ll be damn! How did all that stuff get scattered about me? Even as I was sorting through all that stuff I was cleaning out. Things I’ve saved for decades are now suddenly devoid of meaning. How does this happen?

How does it happen that the slip of paper that serves as record of me paying the processing fee for my driver’s license when I was fifteen becomes just another thing I’ve no use whatsoever for? My book of business cards, the one I’ve carefully assembled throughout the course of my adult working life is just a thing to me now, not A. THING. Sam thought it was awesome, and he wanted to save it from the trash bin. I let him; he was there because I’d called him down to my room, grinning as I handed over all the vintage tees that I’d stored up in that chest. There was AC/DC and Aerosmith and The Cure and White Lion and Queensryche and The Beastie Boys, a handful of textile for each of his eager fists. He was excited, “THESE ARE ALL DATED IN THE EIGHTIES.”

Fuck yes they are, son, and I’d no idea when I tucked those away that one day I’d be handing them over to a handsome young man who would pick such a fine guitar and call me ‘mom’. It seems sweetly fitting, though, and I like the cheesy quality it is weighted with.

I paused for a couple-three minutes after he left to stare intently at a picture of the Young Marine and me. I marvel through the novocaine that is time passed at the love and want that just bleeds out of that substantial little sheet of glossy paper. We were a force not to be taken lightly. We were generous and expansive and demonstrative with one another. There is no indication in those early photographs of what was to come, what would quietly and –strangely enough– calmly unfold between us before we knew it.

If he is to be believed, he now is aware of what an absolute fucker he was. I am well-versed in human behavior and should be inherently cynical, but I DO believe him. I don’t think that he had any idea back then the magnitude of what he was doing. I am almost positive that he was not calculated in his actions.

And then, before I got too much further in, I scooped up what had been scattered but had escaped the trash or giveaway bin and placed it all back in the respective boxes, which were in turn seated back into the chest. There was a tiny bit more wiggle room than before. Some day soon I aim to go through that chest to organize and discard and return words back to their rightful owners, but this weekend was not the time. I closed the lid on my past and shoved it twelve feet across the floor to its new home. I pulled off the bunny ears and went to get ready for a night out with some friends.

For a few days now I have been attempting to get at the middle of some writing that is making me very skittish. See, Maggie is rolling out this new place and it will deal with domestic violence, focusing on survivors with a story to tell. It’s not like it’s a secret or anything that I was in not one, but two (one boyfriend, one spouse) abusive relationships as an adult, but I’ve only ever skimmed the details in my writing, skittering across the surface so that the ice won’t crack causing me to go arrow-straight and startled into the freezing drink, my heart seized and killing me altogether by pulling the warmth from my limbs in order to preserve itself. Ohhhh, heart, oh what you will do in pursuit of self-preservation….

So I’ve been circling this matter in my head, distrustful of what it may become if let out of the box for one fool minute. I have mapped out what I might say and how long it might take me to say it, because God knows when I get spooked I will explore the machinations of every little nuance in emotion mercilessly. Clinically. Unforgivingly and with an eensy little bit of what some folks might refer to as ‘malice’. After days and days of doing this in the back of my mind, I finally reached a place where I could maybe sit down and turn the stage lights on and pound out the re-enactment of all the details that stuck with me: Shocking moments like the one that brought the knowledge that I no longer cried because I was in physical pain from a blow I’d received; the humming, hot flesh ripening into bruised knots was secondary at best. I’d cry because I was disappointed that it was happening again, not because that shit HURT. That’s the point where you realize you are part of the fucking sickness, feeding the crazy, and you have got to either decide to reclaim sanity for the two of you or to resolve to die spiritually or emotionally or physically.

There are lots of stories, too, down this avenue of foulness. Hard to know which ones to give away, if any.

I reached a point tonight where I felt like maybe I could sit down and see what happened when I let go and let fly with my memory and fingers and carefully-held breath. Not holding myself to any promise of publishing, just maybe kicking the tires and then cruising the block to see what went down, you know? As I was sitting on my bed, lotioning my arms, my hips, my stomach, those bunny ears caught my eye and I put them on my head, pushing back my bangs. Tess says I use them to hide too often, these bangs; she urges me to cut them right off and see what happens as a result. I tell her to mind her fucking business. “You ain’t nobody!” she exclaims, “And I’m GROWWWN.” It is a phrase we’ve used on one another since the beginning of our friendship, because we are both headstrong and neither of us likes to be bossed.

I put those bunny ears on because I earnestly can’t imagine myself having a complete emotional breakdown while wearing them, sobbing with my forehead melting into the desk while the monitor glows cold over me. The mental picture of this occurring, in fact, could easily be stated as horrifying to me because it is the sort of thing that just seems so Lifetime movie-esque. In other words, not for me: I’m feature film all the way, baby.

So I’m wearing bunny ears and I’m casually stepping up to the subject at hand, giving it the best blank stare I can muster. Hopefully it won’t make any sudden moves.

the quiet gets all over
:: the quiet gets all over ::

4 worked it out »

  1. Coelecanth 1.20.2009

    I told my story over and over and over again. I told it as test, I told it as a defence and an offense. I used it to distance myself. I told it so often it lost all its meaning and then I told it some more.

    That story still defines who I am and yet somehow I came to know that it’s not all I am. Did the telling help? Possibly, or maybe it was just time that sorted things. Thrice damned fucked if I know for sure. All I was doing was letting it out of its cage. Sometimes it turned and pulled me down by the throat and sometimes it ran away, only to return, slightly smaller perhaps, but it always came home.

    I’ve said many times, here I’m sure, that shared pain is lessened and shared joy is increased. But to that I add: these days if the pain shows up but is bearable I sometimes leave it in its cage and put the poking stick up out of reach.

    Gah. This is not helpful. You know what you need to do.

  2. Seaweed 1.21.2009

    At first I just wanted to see a picture of you in the bunny ears. Then I read more and started to realize . . . you too? I think there is some value in writing it out if only to re-read it and pick at it like a scab later on. But I probably wouldn’t do it first on my own site. Maggie’s option sounds a good place to start.

  3. Well, I’m wearing something very similar to this right now.

  4. maggie, dammit 1.26.2009

    It definitely helps me to write, but not on my own blog. A separate space is a nice alternative. That, or a journal.

    Speaking of journals, it’s these fucking ancient notebooks that have me so floundering as of late and I keep all mine in the hope chest, too, and it doesn’t feel much like hope, let me tell you.



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