The Dead Fish Excuse

When I was little, really little, like an ovum, I was cursed. It’s a long story, but essentially, my mother thought I was indigestion, and somehow ended up at a gypsy woman’s tent, as one does. She upset the woman and was subsequently cursed. As the curse was being placed, it deflected off of my mother’s titanium alloy heart and inadvertently struck a teeny little wandering egg: me. Well, me after a miserably hot pregnancy in the tropics.

The curse is that if something stupid is going to happen, it’s going to happen to me. Hang on because there is a link between the curse and dead fish. Just wait for it. I was all excited (and a little nervous) about going to my first meeting with fellow writers. Transportation to the meeting was a matter of concern for me that night, but in the end, it was of no concern at all! I shall explain.

As a goddess, I understand some of the finer subtleties that relate to my image. You see, a goddess is only as strong as the fidelity and adoration she inspires in those who worship her. So, in my endless wisdom, I decided a long time ago that a goddess looks her most worshipful when she appears to be gliding forth. Not walking like everyone else (ambulation is overdone and so last season). Chariots, however stylish, can be problematic in modern life. Stabling horses in the city is fraught with difficulties, and so in the end, I decided against using a chariot. Instead, I opted for something modern, quiet, and decidedly free of horse apples: I chose an electric wheelchair. Baby, I glide!

Anyhow, back to the story at hand. There was some sort of mix up at the temple and I was not going to arrive at the meeting accompanied by the usual pomp and circumstance. I decided against bringing in those annoying jugglers and acrobatic girls, and thought better of that cavalcade of elephants. The city council was not happy about the prospects of cleaning up two-foot high piles of pachyderm poop. I graciously took their concerns to heart and was going to disguise myself as a typical woman and catch the tram and glide my way to the meeting.

At four in the afternoon, I thought I’d have myself a leisurely pee, then eat dinner, and then get ready to leave for the meeting. I was sitting next to my bed, leaning over onto my elbow, rearranging my clothing, when -whammo!- my elbow slipped out from beneath me. I was trapped, unable to sit up and stupid me, I had given every last slave the night off, and forgot to have my phone nearby in case of just such an emergency. I was stuck in that position for sixteen hours until the next morning when my head slave came in to attend me. Man, did I have to pee!!
So, what does a goddess do for sixteen hours of insane discomfort? She thinks! When I’m earth-bound, I try to work a minimum of magik, so I was determined not to cheat and do something easy like give myself magikal strength or call forth a slave through ESP to assist me; I wanted to tough it out and have an experience. I spent my time devising a helpful system for pain management. For every ach, I tried to vividly imagine something pleasurable that could cause such a pain (rather than something humiliating such as lying in one position like a dead fish for sixteen hours).

My hips hurt and so I imagined how that might come about in a real life, positive way. Cognition ensued and I saw two of my lovely slaves practically fighting over who was going to get the sweet spot; there was a slave at each thigh, passionately pulling at me, not realising they were hurting me in their uncontrollable desire. How delicious! Pain is good!

You see how the system works? The pain at my neck turned into one of my darling followers biting just that much too hard; perfection! With practice, you, too, can enjoy insane discomfort. The next time you have a moderate headache, try to slip into a different frame of mind by convincing yourself that of course your head hurts- whose head wouldn’t hurt after eight hours of shagging like a chimpanzee?!

If you can fake-out your own mind, you can manage most any calamity- that horrible bus ride home that never ends and the guy next to you who just looked at your boobs, that bitching out your boss gave you when she had cheese and onion sandwich breath that made you nearly stagger, or that menacing bull dyke whose girlfriend you accidently flirted with who now wants to kill you very slowly (with a spoon).

Those sixteen hours of doing my impression of a dead fish helped me achieve transcendence. As a goddess, this looks really good on my CV. I am sorry to have missed the June meeting, but all going well, and as long as I don’t decide to do anything else stupid (what are the odds on that?), I might just show up at the July meeting, probably on the wrong night, and maybe an hour late.

Love,
Minxy

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I have been pondering lately what it is about me, about my life, about the way I live that makes me want to write.

I am not one of those writers who simply has to write or they will explode. I write when I want to, when the mood strikes (which is not helpful financially, incidentally), or when I have a looming deadline.

I edit, though, often, and will usually put my editing work before my writing. Other people's writing takes precedence.

I think this is likely because I have the self motivation of a sloth, and I have the imagination, most days, of wet concrete. This is why I know I am an editor first, and a writer second. Editing allows me to put all my creativity into helping someone else make their story the best it can be, and that's a very, very good feeling indeed.

That said, I am a writer. I enjoy it. I believe in the power of words to change lives, and specifically in the power of the written word as a catalyst for change. I believe that by writing down our thoughts, ideals, imaginings and desires and then throwing them out to the world, we are inviting people into a discussion. And there oh-so-many roads those discussions can lead, if we are willing to follow and lead down them. I have published various writings, and I get a wicked headrush from opening a book and seeing my name in it.

And I get a rush from knowing that other people not only read, but like my writing. Yay! I jump for joy and do a rhythm challenged dance around the house when I get good feedback.

Writing, for me, is about communication in black and white that blends into millions of shades of grey.

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Celebrating Carol Ann Duffy celebrating great women poets

Congratulations to Carol Ann Duffy - Britain's first woman poet laureate!

Watch Carol Ann Duffy being interviewed here after accepting the position.

Did you know that both Britain and America now have lesbian poet laureates? Read more about the American poet laureate, Kay Ryan.

Sapphist Writers are everywhere ;-)

And Sapphist Writers are for everyone.

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What is Self?

Nicki's post "keeping inspired" resonated with stuff that's buzzing round my head just now about how we take the good things from western individualism but allow ourselves to connect, collaborate and be part of something bigger (a community, a planet) without merging, surrendering or smothering our differences. It seems to be a tricky struggle in our current culture, and I feel somewhat exposed to admit my need to belong and be part of something. This is what I came up with...

To be totally myself, in the absence of others…who am I but a reflection? What is me? A bundle of stories and conditions from the past, or an interface with the now? There are words I can use and feel solid in; woman, lesbian, feminist, anarchist, humanist, environmentalist, writer. These describe a space I occupy, but I’m not sure they’re me. It isn’t that I don’t feel solid, unique, but being human is also being part of something – not being the sound of one hand clapping. “Me” is simply a coalescence of thoughts, star dust, cells, events…I rub off and am rubbed off on. I am supposed to worship Western Individuality and the Cult of the Self but I hold being a champion of difference alongside being connected and in community. The importance of belonging is as strong as the need to express what is “me” freely, strongly and fully. So I slip towards other humans who occupy similar spaces and I feel part of something larger than just me, but the overall shape of the “us” is in harmony with the shape I occupy personally. And if I stand still amid the trees for long enough I can feel my feet throwing roots deep into the earth and I realise I don’t need to feel afraid of being connected to the whole planet.

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Conversation Pieces

Conversations between writers can be fascinating. Can we continue a dialogue here by responding to each other - in poetry or prose, or a mix of genre?

Take a look at LikeStarlings, a place for talking in poems, where the following project is taking place.

The idea is simple:

1. Pair poets who don’t know each other

2. Start with a poem by one of them

3. The other writes a poem in response, within a week

4. The first responds to that poem with a poem

5. That exchange happens again, so four new poems, and a conversation of five, are written

Can we do something similar? But of course our idea could look something like this: some of us will know each other, the response needn't be identified as a poem, we don't need to restrict the process to pairs, and we can have as few or as many exchanges as we please.

Responses invited to:

I seek reasons,
strive to meet
love in the afternoons,
returning deliciously cold,
fingers sodden
mouth frail.

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Keeping Inspired

At the last meeting we agreed to experiment with some exercises here in the hope that we can inspire and respond to each other's themes. We also want to have some fun in the process, and provide something for you (the reader) to read!

Here is my opening encouragement and stimulus for inspiration. Although I wrote this some time before I joined Sapphist Writers, it does help me to celebrate the work that we're doing as well as our future ambitions.

I will come direct:
no second-hand mediocrity;
not a ritual required.
We are women
impelled to be
totally ourselves.

What does it mean to you to be totally yourself? When are you impelled to be nothing less?

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Well here's my first bloggeroo!! How exciting. Hmmm...what to write? Oh no! - White Page Phobia sets in...or not really because I'm writing already aren't I? Although it's just a stream of consciousness really, or stream of drivel in the hope that someone will have a literary tissue with which to clear it all up and blog something really interesting in it's wake so that all traces of this first and experimental blog disappears off the bottom of the screen never to be seen again. I'm fascinated to find that if you don't concentrate you can end up writing bolg and there's no spell checker so you have to keep looking up from 4 finger typing to see what mistakes need to be rectified...but I think bolg could be a word, it could nicely describe the kind of drivel one sometimes sees on blogs...bit like this piece ;o)

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