Raised by Wolves or Something

Dining at my neighborhood Elmer's Pancake and Steak House yesterday, I was treated to something no one should ever have to witness while eating in public.

A couple finishing their meal a few tables away from me chatted loudly. OK, she was the loud one, punctuating many of her insipid remarks with a laugh that could spew rounds of military grade amunition. That's my very long way of saying she sounded like a machine gun. She laughed about things like the new cell phone commercial with Chubaca recording a ring tone. She laughed about some stupid girl at school. "Anh anh anh anh anh!" She laughed about Tori Amos and some other such crap.

On and on she brayed, with her male companion. I'm guessing that they were in drama or chorus at their school, because they talked about music, and sang songs, and I think some old movies came up. And when she burst in a short tirade about abusive men, and her friend agreed, I knew he was gay. I've had that conversation with straight men, and they don't concede badness so easily, but act like there's a another male gender that they haven't heard about.

Anyway. As annoying as their, I mean, her utterances were, they were amusing. I made a game of trying to figure out whether they were drama or chorus, whether or not she knew he was gay, whether or not he knew he was gay, and then... snip...snip snip...snip.

No. Nonononono--I did not just hear that... I looked in her direction, horrified to confirm that she was clipping her fingernails. IN A RESTAURANT! I gave her a dirty look. She saw it, stopped for a minute. I thought my point had been made, but realized that she took a second to tap debris from the implement. Snip...snip... snip...she started in on the other hand.

I spooned my dinner into my mouth a little less enthusiastically. And even though she was across the room, I kept imagining little nail bits landing in my mashed potatoes. Or that I didn't see them land, but took a bite and felt the shell-like sliver between my teeth.

Who raised this beast? How can a person possibly think that removing debris from one's body is acceptable in a dining establishment? She's still young, and not very experienced in the art of fag-hagness. She will discover-- sooner than later I hope, that the gay men she secretly hopes to convert will not put up with such coarse behavior. Oh, honey, that will not do.

Her boyfriends-lite will expect her to be more of a lady than they. Someone they can emulate. Someone they can borrow clothes from, with the reasonable expectation that said apparel will be free from grease stains, cookie crumbs, and BO. She should be one of the girls, not a beer-gutted, braying, sweating, snorting, butt-picking, ball-scratching loogy-factory. That's what middle-aged men(or as they're known on the street, "paying customers") are for.

Whenever I see indelicate or boorish behavior, I want to ask, 'were you raised by wolves?' But wolves, in fact most animals, are never as coarse as some people are. Except for swine. I'm no expert on the species, but in my opinion, they are the pigs of the animal kingdom. So this hideous beast at Elmers must have been raised by pigs, and thanks to her attraction to the fairer sex, there are not likely to be hoof-clipping piglets in her future.

God, that's just gross.

Cindy

The Fly is Dead

Long live the Fly.

Sticky, as I had decided to name the intrepid housefly, passed on this evening after some four days (since Tuesday) without food or water. His germy body is at rest on its side on the cold, aluminum window sill. Sticky looks as if he's sleeping. I hope he went peacefully, and that Republicans don't get their panties in a bunch over the unfortunate circumstances of Sticky's death.

I named him, because anything that's been in my house for more than three days gets a name and a water dish. A more attractive bug may have actually been given a water dish, and a name like PrettyBug or CutiePie. Sorry Stick, but you're no Lady bug.

If we could all take a moment, just a short space of silent reflection, to remember Sticky, and the qualities that made Sticky Sticky--which were his legs-- then maybe his short life will be given meaning that this wayward fly himself could never have imagined. And if we keep Sticky in our hearts--and he will be in mine--then his death will have not been in vain.

----

What I will remember most about Stick, is that he didn't give up. Hungry, exhausted, and scared, his hope and dream of freedom may have been renewed with every breeze blowing through the barbs on his legs. There must be a way out, he'd buzz. I'm going to try again; there has to be a door here somewhere.

A thing with prismed eyes must surely glimpse a multitude of doors, but he only needed one. In fact, he's found the hidden passage--a portal obscured by matter and the heavy concerns of life, and not easily opened. Sticky has stepped through a gate we can only wonder about in myths and ritual, as we pace the plane of our own mesh screens--noting its dimensions so that we might understand the barrier. There must be a way out.

Sticky found that rare door at last.

Memorially,

Cindy

Fly Update & Poem of the Week

In light of the plight of the fly, I'm posting a poem that is about ten-years-old, and dedicating it to my winged captive, who--in spite of my having opened the window, tapping the screen, and wishing him well, is still clinging to the screen. Up and down, up and down. I had to close the window again as it is chilly outside.

I'll try later to coax him out, and hopefully he'll resume his rich life of sugar-hunting, shit-wallowing, and corpse-squating. Until then, he's keeping himself busy and active with lots of cardio and, I suppose during moments of pause and introspection, he has his memories to get him through these trying times. One cannot live the entitled life of a maggot forever, can one?

Fake kisses,

Cindy


Survival Instinct

Those sedentary ways
make a home for
dusty cobwebs.
Mites increase and nest
in boredom’s vacant crannies.

Opportunists anywhere
along this crowded food chain
can spot a meal
from miles away.
Consumption is inevitable

Hold fast your grip
onto the rungs
of primal limbic wisdom.
Survival begs
that there are just
two kinds of creatures:

Us,
and them.

Cindy St. Onge

My Fly is Open

There is a fly--a big, fat one pacing up and down the screen in my office window. He flew in a couple of days ago when the weather was nice enough to leave the back door open. I knew he'd head for the open window--they always do, stupid creatures, and once he landed, I'd slam the window shut and he'd starve to death in a day or so. The 'or so' deadline has come and gone, and the ugly little critter is still crawling up and down, back and forth on the screen, none the worse for wear. There are no signs of wasting, no limping, no gasping, no visions of angels and departed relatives. And there is no indication of hopelessness.

I'm tempted to reward this unusually hardy bug with freedom, but I'm more apt to just see how long he hangs in there.

He's near the top of the screen right now, wrapping his black little fly toes through the mesh, staring out at the cloudy sky, standing still. Every now and then another insect will land on the outside, and eventually fly away. This Duracell bunny of flies, looks imploringly in the direction of his liberated brethren. He's angling toward the top corner now, changing direction--his path is horizontal--he's heading north.

What keeps him going? He's mapped every inch of the screen in his wee brain, covered every tiny square, and has probably got some nice, thick callouses forming on his hairlike, itty-bitty feet. He's started downward, in a zigzag pattern, like something just occurred to him. An untried path, perhaps. Or maybe heights combined with hunger are making him lightheaded. He'll try something else.

I know what it's like to be so close to where I want to be, to be separated from where I belong by something as flimsy as a mesh screen, but woven just tightly enough to to keep me from moving through it. I know what it's like run in circles because I can't seem to find forward. I know what it's like to be smaller than everything else in this world.

In some of the screens in this house, there are holes or small places where the screen has come loose from the sill, and I don't feel bad about trapping bugs inside those windows, because if they look hard enough, they'll find the way out. It amazes me, that such meticulous and obsessive creatures like these find opportunities into the house, but seem to miss the cracks that would free them. I have sills full of crusty fly corpes. I wonder what goes through their heads when they notice the ossuary in the metal sill. Do they just give up? This one in my office hasn't.

He's climbing at an angle toward the top again. Stopping frequently, and for longer periods to just rest, and stare out at his old world, a world just out of his grasp, a world he can still smell and see, but can only touch with the very tip of his legs.

I hate flies. But I'm going to set this one free.

Cindy

All Knowing or Just Guessing?

I've always believed that following my first instinct is the best course in decision making. Lately, this hasn't worked so well.
Calling upon my inner voice, my higher self, my know-it-all-guides, and the person/concept/force called 'god', has sent me down the wrong road, meeting the wrong people, buying unwaxed floss instead of waxed, and generally, my timing is lousy and now I trust nothing.

Up until now, I thought perhaps something was blocking communication with my divine backseat drivers. Or, maybe I hadn't waited long enough for a true response, and heard only my own faulty best guess. Well I'm tired of taking the blame for bad decisions after humbling myself to the point of asking for help--or least an opinion, in the first place. It's not my faulty information being acted upon. So who's taking the rap for this? Whatever that divine force is, seems to be striking out a lot these days, I mean really, really off. So has god ever been right about anything?
You'll recall in Genesis, when his pet humans got out of hand, he actually regretted creating us. God, yes GOD had a Homer Simpson moment, uttering a thunderous "D'oh!" at the poorly thought out Project: Earth.

I'm beginning to think that if life were a cosmic Jeopardy game, god is the contestant who's buzzer doesn't work. Which wouldn't matter much, since he'd sheepishly avoid categories like US Presidents and Modern Metallurgy in favor of Saints on Celluloid and World Series Records. Of course people at home would root for him--the beloved underdog, his buzzer being busted and all, and the fact that he's really, really old and blurting out the answers in spite of the other contestants ringing in first. But when he yells, "I'd like to buy a vowel, Alex," all suspicions would be confirmed. Not only does god not have all the answers, he doesn't know how to play the game.

Life seems to be more like the Wheel of Fortune. Maybe that was god's point in his desperate plea for a vowel. You can only prepare so much, and then it's a crap shoot. You can try to gauge the momentum needed for a big prize, but that doesn't gaurantee you won't end up bankrupt, or worse, with Samsonite luggage.

All I can do is spin and spell, and hope that the writing on the wall is plain and clear when it's my turn to solve the puzzle. And as the lights come on, and the blanks fill in with meaning, I realize that all this time, I should have been praying to Pat Sajack.

Cindy

Impersonating a Cop-Out

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Blog filler.
Blog filler who?
Blog filler's all you're getting today because I can't be bothered to use my frontal lobe for anything purposeful or inventive or relevant. That's who.

Yes, I'm actually posting my homework from last year's Bible as Literature class. I blasphemed my way through that class AND got an 'A' for my trouble, thank you very much. The assignment for the week was to read the chapters mentioned in my headings and summarize. I waited until an hour before I had to leave for class before starting the assignment, which is why the summaries are a little out of breath, and loose and fast with style and grammar.

Cindy


Jericho – Joshua 6
I remember the song: “Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, Jericho, Jericho. Joshua fought the battle of Jericho and the walls came a tum-ba-lin down.” That’s pretty much the long and short of it. Seven turned out to be the city’s unlucky number, and the whole drama reminded me of some rock concerts I’ve been to. OK, it reminded me of every rock concert I’ve been to. Seven laps around the wall, a horn solo, and then an “I can’t hear you—louder this time!” exhortation from the spandexed prophet on stage.

An aside, Kate Bush alluded to this battle in her video for “Experiment IV” from The Whole Story CD. The song is about some government’s secret weapon which uses disturbing sounds to vanquish their foes. A manila folder is seen for just a second, labeled “Jerry Coe.” Get it?

Samson and Delilah—Judges 16
Samson was a dumb jock with a predilection for strange stuff—in this case meaning foreign gals. This story reads like a prototype for “Dumb and Dumber.” Delilah lacks guile and subtlety, and Samson can’t get it through his big, fat muscle head that every time she asks him “OK, hypothetically, just for kicks, how would a person subdue you?” the Philistines attempt to bind and subdue him in just the manner he told Delilah.

Perhaps the three-legged gerbil treading the Habitrail in his head could have picked up on something and scratched out an SOS. I don’t know. Maybe Samson’s parents didn’t model a healthy relationship and he thought this was her way of ‘connecting.’ Maybe he just needed a place to stay. Did Matt Groening write that story? Are you sure? I think whoever redacted this story stole it from the Simpsons.

Ruth—Ruth 1,2
Did you know that in 1964, pregnant women couldn’t collect unemployment? My mother told me that. When she was pregnant with me, she had to wear an oversized trench coat to hide her bulbous tummy when she’d collect her check at the Employment office. It seems that society has been slow to let women make an honest living, independent of marriage.

I picture Naomi and her daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth standing by the road with cardboard signs which say “Will marry for $$.” So the two young widows had two choices: Rent their bodies to paying customers or sell themselves to one long-term client, let’s call him a “husband” for simplicity’s sake. At Naomi’s urging, Ruth surprises Boaz with, well let’s call it a “date,” and then he marries her. I think the two women were angling to enforce the ‘you break it you buy it’ clause, which still holds water in the Middle East today. If you screw her, she’s yours. Can’t marry her off, she can’t stay at home. Take her. Go on; get outta here.

David and Goliath—1 Samuel 17
One of the greatest underdog stories ever writ. Goliath was a Philistine behemoth. And such a philistine. Goliath was also a bully—picking a fight with anyone who would represent the Israelites in battle, like some snockered ex-high school football hero trying to show off for the barflies at the local dive. So there’s Goliath of Gath, clunking on the top of the hill in his chain mail, Viking helmet and XenaWarriorPrincess breast plate, slurring and growling “C’mawn, ya little milquetoasts! Who’s gonna step up and take on the G-man? Aarrrgh!”

David, a twerpy little skater-dude who would have been more likely to hang out with the pot-smoking artistic types in high school, playing his guitar in the cafeteria at lunch, was all heart and no biceps. So naturally, he accepts the challenge. Why? because he has a secret weapon: a slingshot. No self-respecting kid should be without one.

David’s getting ready for the fight. If you can picture Woody Allen suited up in shoulder pads and a helmet, then you get the picture of what David may have looked like pinging around inside a suit of armor. Now is not the time to play dress up David; you could be killed. Ditch the armor and get thee thy big eye patch thingy.

A prayer and a rock brought the bully Goliath down, and a celebration immediately followed the upset: “Circumcisions all around!” somebody yelled. This tradition would be replaced in later centuries by the overturning of cars and other joyous acts of vandalism.

Little guy kicks big guy’s butt: the story of David and Goliath has been a beloved template for such classic stories as The Wizard of Oz, Norma Rae, and Revenge of the Nerds.

Editors: What Do They Know Anyway?

Yesterday, I recieved my zillionth rejection letter. Ok, it wasn't even a letter, it was a tiny piece of paper, just bigger than a bookmark, on which the word 'no' had been cruelly stretched into a whole paragraph.
It is a custom, one of the many ritualistic practices of writers--who are notoriously superstitious---to keep our rejection letters, memos, postcards, whatever. And that's what I have done these last two years. I've clipped each one onto the growing pile of rejections, as if it were a precious memento, a keepsake, an heirloom photograph.

Until yesterday. I tore the awful little scrap of dismissal into bits along with the tainted envelope it came in, and threw it away. I wondered, why am I harboring these horrible, thoughtless, talent-negating insults? Why am I keeping them, and pretending, yes pretending that they have value?
Most of them are form letters, vague and detached in their can't-be-botheredness. I've learned nothing from them, have no clue why my work didn't meet par, so why on earth have I filed these dismissive missives with more care than any of their cold words would muster?

Because other writers do.

And I've decided it's stupid and pointless and confidence-eroding. I'm burning the stack I've collected because the last thing I need around my workspace is that kind of negativity and apathy.

To the Editors:

I regret to inform you that I'm rejecting your rejection letters. They do not meet my creative needs at this time, nor will they ever. You see, my desk is overflowing with my own work, essays and poems and letters which have much thought put into them, and your letters, memos, bookmarks, etc, just don't beat with the same heart of my writing, and if anything is going to take up room on my desk, it's going to be my own fucking writing.

I would advise you to read my work first, before submitting your non-opinion, which you usually address to no one in particular. Lazy bastards.

Best of luck elsewhere,

Cindy St. Onge

Good Friday... or Great Friday?

It's too beautiful to be inside today. I'll make this quick so we can get on with our lives. Here's this week's poem. Have a terrific weekend everyone.

Cindy


Volition

I don’t pray in my dreams.

The notion of God
isn’t even a dream
in my dreams, because
beyond the shoals
of heavy drowse
there—in the deeper, blacker waters
I’m in the moment
treading thoughts
thoughtlessly.
I’m in this moment
and this moment too,
like an animal
who doesn’t pray
but dies ok.

Morning claims me, reigns me in.
My silver cord is tensile
resilient, intact—
for now.
And I open my eyes
in prayer
in need
desirous as always, resuming my petition.

Our Father, Mother may I?
Forgive me, and give me this.
Fill me up and give me more.
Make me whole; make me rich
and pretty and smart and
oh yes, pious.
Give me this, God,
and I shall flatter you
with grateful oblation.

I’ll have the whole world
begging you for scraps of grace,
for miracles and resolutions.
And for help finding lost things.
Just a word from me, God,
and all this could be yours.
You know what you have to do.

Moments?
Who can bother with moments
when there is only lack?
How can I be present
with pieces missing?
Yes, I am needful
and dwell upon things
I can’t change.
So I pray to God
to change them for me.

And what does he give me?
Dreams.


--Cindy S. St. Onge

Where There's Smoke...

There's a pope on fire.

Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was elected as the 265th ( I think) pope Tuesday, and will rule, iron-fisted like, assuming the holy name Benedict XVI.

As cardinal, the 78-year-old German has a reputation for being a hard ass where doctrine and preservation of that old time religion are concerned. His immovable position on such hot issues as whether or not clergy can marry, gay marriage, and the ordination of women, has driven a wedge between codgers of his ilk and progressive, forward-thinking, catholics.
But don't fear, my rosary-entangled, holy water-splattered friends, he's old, and what some religious experts are deeming an interim pope.

Or as I like to say, a rebound pope.

He'll get the flock through the immediate grief, distracting them from missing Pope John Paul II. He entertain them, telling jokes, wining and dining the faithful--in a eucharistic sense, eventually attempting to cauterize any attachment to his predecessor by trash-talking and malicious posthumous gossip. He'll try to convince the masses that he's the real deal, that he's what they've been wanting all along.

Sure, he's not John Paul, but he's all you've got, for now. He's a warm body in a cold, empty cathedral. He's there for you. And he won't let you forget it.

Pretty soon, he'll start making you feel bad about yourself. He'll remind you of how unworthy you are, that if it weren't for him, you'd be alone in this world. He'll try to isolate you from your family and friends, and he'll want to know what you've been doing all week. And you'll tell him. You'll confess everything to him because you want his approval, his blessing, absolution only he can provide.

You'll think about leaving. But he sees the way you look at Unitarians, and Buddhists. He knows how you covet freedom--freedom from guilt, freedom from superstitious ritual, freedom from the delusory need for intercession. He is a jealous god, oops, I mean man. So he holds you a little tighter, and it makes you feel wanted and loved, at first.

"Let me remind you what Hell is like, child," he rasps into your ear. Your choice, at this point, is between eternal damnation, and indefinite earthly bondage. Bondage is ok for now. You've lived with it this long, you can hang in there a little longer.

Finally, he dies. The coast is clear, you can leave without fearing retaliation. An Episcopalian church provides safe, transitional shelter while you get your thoughts together. And after years of healing, deprogramming, you are at last ready to sell your story to the Lifetime Channel.

For a devilishly satisfying pictorial rendering of the new pope(not to mention Rock's own brand of papal-bitch-slapping), check out http://askrock.blogspot.com

Interview Tips

Every now and again, I get the gumption to actively seek employment. Against my better judgement, of course. So I do the things I've been taught to do--send my resume with a polite and servile cover letter, cross my fingers and hope for the best, which means I pray that I win the lottery.

I'll admit that my attempts, at times are half-hearted, and I'm more tempted to wiseassness when I can email the resume and cover letter.

For example, I've sent cover letters which state simply, "I rule." Other times, I've implored a response with "Pick me! Pick me!" I've learned that my chances of winning the lottery are better than securing an interview with those cover letters.

But sometimes, I'll get a bite. Then I have to practice my hoop-jumping, standing up on my hind legs, and some assorted seal tricks, like clapping or speaking on cue.

It's so tempting to throw the interview. The urge to go in and mouth off because they don't know me and I won't be any worse off is nearly irresistable.

But I don't. Even though I want to go in and just be an asshole, I sit up straight and comply peaceably. I still fantasize about handling the interview on my own terms, and have prepared answers for the stock questions provided in th HR bible:

Why did you leave your last job?

There was a tragic fire. I was the only one who survived.

What about your job before that, at XYZ company?

There was a tragic fire. I was the only one who survived.

Intermittently, I'd drum my fingers on the table or desk, staring at the interviewer. Or if they're in a windowed office, I'd just get up and look out the window. "I'm listening. What's your next question?"

What are your strengths?

I can drink a 200 lb man under the table. Wanna see?

What are your weaknesses?

a) I don't have any
b) I tend to make people feel inferior
c) 200 lb men and happy hour

Do you have any questions for me?

a) Are you gonna use all those pens, or can I have one?
b) I'd like to sit in your chair, and you sit here.
c) How's the sprinkler system here?
d) Can I borrow ten bucks?

There are the extra touches one can add to the interview experience, like:

Wearing sunglasses
Asking " Does my breath smell a little boozy?"
Farting or belching audibly
Making a cell phone call or
picking up the desk phone and asking, "do I need to dial 9?"

Sure, these tactics may sound outlandish and rude, but remember, they're getting paid, you're not. It's your time, your gas, your interview. Own it.

Cindy

Let's Talk

I want to have a conversation. I would like to participate in an exchange, because I don't have all the answers. I have theories, but they ask more questions than they answer. I'm cold, and in the dark. But I believe that the friction of dialogue will spark a fire, eventually a blazing bonfire of understanding and clarity about some things.

For instance, if God is omnipotent, what does he need us for? We serve some purpose, we meet, or are suppose to meet, a need in God, that he cannot satisfy for himself. If the Bible is any indication, that need is to be loved. How is God like us, in that very vulnerable, human, empty, co-dependent sense? Do I want a god that is so needy? So insecure?

Am I to believe that there is a hole in God, shaped like me? A space that only I can fill? A longing, a craving, maybe an obsession that God has for me, and you, and each of us? Is it possible that God searches for meaning in his relationship with us, the way we search for purpose in our realationship with him?

How are our own desires like God's? Our expectations?

The big difference between our desires and Gods,I think, is in our estimation of our worthiness. I would assume God never doubts his. I know I doubt mine. But God wants everything, I don't. God wants everybody, I don't. God forsees the manifestation of his sated desires and trusts the outcome. Or does he?

Cindy

Hello...Hello? Is this thing on?

C'est Vendredi folks, and if you think my oui bit of French is pretentious, let me tell you I'm just getting warmed up. It's Poetry Day here at Wordlust : Paperfetish. You know what that means. Poetry. Crappy, awful, confusing, poetry that I, myself wrote.
Have a good weekend. Or don't. I don't really care.

Fake kisses,

Cindy



Heavenlash

Clouds, tufted and woolly
smeared at the edges, marble
a tin-foil sky.
The trees beneath stand
lush and green, and not
just green, but many
kinds of green—
Crowns of jade, of emerald, of peridot
fan against their chrome horizon:
Great verdant afros.

Neck unhinged, I
track rolling caravans
of cumuli—
crystal laden and
chased by winds, like
herded beasts on yellow plains.

Startled by growling thunder,
I know that if the sky moves,
indeed it lives.
And what am I,
but a grain of dust
afloat the currents of
God’s great breath?

Cindy S. St. Onge

Will Talking to Myself Make Me Go Blind?

Heavy sigh.

It's Thursday night, and ER is a rerun. I've been eating so much sugar, that the yeast is now feeding the human. I only have one 25 mg diphenhydramine tab left, and may have to take a Nyquil gel tablet so I can sleep.

Nothing good happened today. Nothing bad happened either, but it's been just another in a long, loooong chain of airless, joyless, inconsequential, unremarkable, 24-hour square sections of the calendar. Blah blah blah.

So now what? Collapse into a drugged sleep and wake up to a day, that for all intents and purposes, never really needed to happen? A day that, except for the primetime programming, will be exactly like today, which was exactly like yesterday, which uncannily resembles the day before it? Is there a point? Is there a fucking reason to live the same goddamn day over and over and over again?

Memo to my yeast host: tomorrow I want doughnuts.

It's a Jungle in Here: Part II

Ok. I'm phoning this one in because I just don't feel like writing or being existential or deep or any of that crap. And, I couldn't make the point of living authentically better than Annie Dillard has in her exquisite essay, "Living Like Weasels." So just read that and you'll get the jist of what I'm trying to get at.

It'll be my turn to mow the lawn this time. Blech. We have a big yard and tall grass.
If you can pick a breed of dog to suit your temperment, why can't you grow a grass more suited to said temperment?

I have type A personality grass, which clashes horribly with my type L (lazy) personality. I wan't a more laid back kind of grass. Something that just wont grow because it's too much trouble. A kind of lawn that could grow thick and tall if it wanted to, but just can't seem to get around to it. I want a grass that procrastinates. A grass that isn't too proud to be mediocre. I want a goalless, ambitionless grass, a phobic grass--fearful of heights. Grass: Nature's Astroturf.

I could pave everything and just let moss cover everything. Alright. I'll just mow the frickin' stuff. Dang it.

Cindy

It's a Jungle in Here: Part I: Evolution Ain't What It Used to Be

Animals get a bad rap.

They go about their lives the way we ought to, obedient to survival in every moment, and in our arrogance, we disparage the utter purity and simplicity of that. We expend a terrific amount of energy resisting limbic good sense to prove how evolved we are. We defy natural rhythms and scramble telepathic waves with cellular towers and satellite dishes, and for what, the sake of being civilized?

"Wild animals are unpredictable," warn the experts. No they're not. They react. They react to danger, or a perceived threat. They react to hunger. They react to reproductive urges. And some of the more intelligent creatures, like cats, strategize and problem-solve. Humans, on the other hand, for all our civility and erect posture, exhibit alarming, and seemingly unprecipitated reactions to our environment.

No one knows why some people, with normal upbringing in healthy families, display antisocial behavior. No one can predict who's going to snap and gun down unsuspecting diners at the local McDonald's. And what about all the variants of sadomasochism we exhibit? Those adrenalin pumping activities ranging from scary movies and carnival rides to whips & chains and Russian roulette. We like to scare ourselves. We crave unpredictability.

On a scale of one to ten, one being the least predicable, how do we look to the saner members of the animal kingdom? My guess--somewhere in the negative double digits.

We have no idea why fellow humans deviate from societal norms. We don't understand this about our own species, so how on earth can we call other species unpredictable with a straight face? God, we're stupid.

Watching the news and reading report after report of random human on human violence, especially within families, I’m convinced that we aren't progressing, we aren't evolving, we're just a bunch of deviant freaks. Humanity is the sanitarium, the psych ward, of the natural world. Cats and dogs know this. Bears and cougars know too. We should really stop patting ourselves on the back for that. Really. Enough with the self-aggrandizement; we're just bipedal, glorified brain stems. That's all.

We're disassociative(in the mental health sense) water molecules dancing with lipids in a cosmic centrifuge, oblivious to the fact that we will be emulsified at some point, and all the trouble we’ve gone to to differentiate(in the egotistical sense) was pointless.

Because I've denied the animal I am at my core, I languish in that existential centrifuge, clinging to the edge, afraid of losing my individuality, but longing for community. An animal is at ease with both its oneness with the natural world, yet makes no apologies for standing its ground and marking its territory. A tiger neither dwells on the past nor frets about the future. That tiger lives in the space of a beating heart. It lives in the space between inspiration and expiration. This tiger doesn't require faith in a theoretical future, because it basks in the certainty of right now. The certainty of being alive, of being, is enough.



Part II Animal Guides: Living Authentically will post tomorrow.

125,000 Years? But I'm Mad Now!

Dr. Bryan Sykes, geneticist at University of Oxford and author of The Seven Daughters of Eve and Adam's Curse: A Future Without Men, postulates that male homosexuality isn't caused by an actual gene, but is a result of warring X and Y chromosomes.

The battle of the sexes happens on a molecular battlefield. How about that? So when people refer to me as a manhater, what can I say? Even my DNA hates men. It's true.

Sykes believes that the X and Y sex markers are driven to replicate their own kind, wiping out the competitor. A kind of genocide is happening with every clashing of sperm and egg. The Xs want a world of Xs and the Ys are all about the Ys. But the Ys don't exchange DNA like other chromozomes, according to Sykes, and that's what leaves the aloof Y prone to more mutations, and that's why they're losing the battle.

Mitochondrial DNA, found in the X zome is passed from mother to child. Diseases such as hemophaelia, male-pattern-baldness, and others are visited upon sons by their mothers. Insidious.
And genius. I've never heard of anything passed onto daughter from father, besides social dysfunction, that is. That's what separates the Xs and the Ys, the Xs are always thinking of others, while the Ys are self-absorbed louts.

Sure, the male can grow up to be a serial killer, wife-beater, rapist, or all three in the form of religious leader or government official. Let 'em have their fun. The y zome is deteriorating. And male infants have a higher mortality rate than females, except in some Asian cultures which practice a pro-Y campaign.

Back to the gay 'gene'. This is one way, devious though it is, that X keeps Y from replicating, by producing homosexual male offspring. Sykes refers to male homosexuality as possibly a kind of 'genetic altruism' which favors the agenda of the mitochondrial DNA. He has found that more often than not, tracing the matrilinial line of a gay male, one will find more aunts than uncles, and those uncles are either out, or 'confirmed bachelors' if you know what I mean.
He believes that between increasing male infertility, homosexuality, infant mortality, etc, along with the Y zome mutating itself into oblivion, the X chromozome will win the battle in a mere 125,000-150,000 years, or some 5000 generations.

I'm not sure I can wait that long.

Anyway. So if team X eliminates team Y, how will the Xs replicate in the future? Maybe we never needed the Y in the first place. I think they were hired help eons ago, and things got out of hand. They were contracted to do some heavy lifting or yard work or something, and some idiot women must have fed some of the guys, being the first to discover that once you feed a man, they won't leave. Scientists have discovered that two eggs can become a female embryo, but two sperm won't amount to anything (no, really?). And what about disease? Well, if the gender that wasn't so fastidious about cleaning we're the sole survivors, that would be a problem. But women will do just fine, and everything will come in a foil packet, making twisty lids obsolete.

So if male homosexuality is handed down from mommys, what causes lesbianism?
Frankly, I think lesbianism is really the default sexuality, and not a deviant preference. Lesbianism is the patriarchal term. I'd like to call it Mitochondrial Solidarity, a term, which in my mind, harks back to the days before the Nephilim invaded our happy, dyky Eden.

You gotta wonder. The X chromozome knows something we don't. There must be a reason for the battle, and perhaps that reason is that a correction is underway. Something that went awry ages ago is slowly being rectified. The patriarchal status quo should not be a measure of what is normal or right. The language must be examined, the motives investigated, and one must always ask, 'who does this serve?' 'whose interests are are looked after?'

Listen to your Mother.

How do I Disconnect My Feeding Tube?

Since April of 2003, I have been in a persistent vegetative state, which in my case means unemployed.

I languish day in and day out in a coma of no expectations, no schedule, no deadlines, and no income. I have done absolutely nothing these last two years, and have nothing to show for it. Duh.

Perpetually bored, I entertain visions of my vanishing car, home, jewels, ok--jewel,computer, and cds. The fear of becoming destitute alleviates the doldrum, for a while. Eventually, the paranoia gets old and predicatble. When fear is no longer a motivator, ennui takes on a deadly air.

I should have perished by my own hand months ago. After reading up on the deaths of my heroes--Syliva Plath, Anne Sexton, Frida Kahlo, Dorothy Parker, and others, implosion seems inevitable for creative people, especially writers, who work and for the most part, live in isolation. Caving in on oneself. That is the dreaded fate of the artist. I've done my homework, and preparation is on my mind often.

Off and on, over the years, I've written goodbye notes, instructions for next-of-kin, and have put most of my affairs in order, but I've continually put off the deed for one reason or another. Sometimes it's to keep an appointment on my calendar. Last week it was because I had jury duty. But lately, it's just because there's something good on television that night, or that week.

I'm not as worried about never finding out how my life would have turned out, or about getting to see what I'll look like when I'm old, about my family and friends having to deal, as I am worried about missing an episode of Survivor, or America's Top Model, or Deadwood. And since there is now a Law & Order for every night of the week, I'm committed until rerun season. But as soon as network TV goes into hiatus, Six Feet Under will start it's new (and final) season on HBO. The thought of being kept alive by television--indefinitely, terrifies me.

A steady diet of reality TV, crime drama, and cable access cheap thrills are all that keep me from gassing myself into the Everafter. The boob tube, in its cruel and unrelenting electromagnetism, anchors me to this mortal coil. So I wait. Wait for the remote battery to run down. Wait until there's no extra money for cable, then no money at all for electricity. Wait for the machine and it's blue aura to go dark. Then I'll let nature take its course.

Cindy

True Love Waits

Thirty-five years, to be exact. Prince Charles finally wed his longtime love, mistress, the-other-woman, soul mate--the former Camilla Parker Bowles.

Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, as she is now titled, and her prince officialed things up yesterday in a civil service followed by a soul-scouring blessing by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

In an age when relationships unhinge under even little bouts of turbulence, Charles and Camilla have cemented a bond over the decades which has withstood both their marriages, the expectations of their respective stations, constant scrutiny from the media and the public. And still, they're devoted to each other.

Though the Prince of Wales has come off as a cad, in light of how he betrayed Princess Diana, and people still can't say the name 'Camilla' without an indignant toss of the head, it's obvious that these two just get each other. Are the rest of us a little jealous? A little?

C'mon, I'll fess up. It's damn easy to look down my nose at the scandalous pair. I've never even liked anyone for 35 years. I can't imagine what such a long-burning passion might feel like. Territorial and habitually solitary, I have a reptillian fear of intimacy. I avoid sentiment and attachment, because nothing good ends with -ment; Imprisonment, confinement, excrement.

These lovers, born into polish and priveledge--well-educated, well-traveled,well-heeled, well-known--they already live lives the rest of us would like a taste of. And, as if all the aristocratic perks weren't enough--they've found true love in each other. Not a fling, not a romp, not a dalliance, but a deep and abiding affection for one another. Admit it folks. We're jealous.

The two blue-blooded Brits have been groomed from infancy to keep their reputations and the good names of their families speckless. They are the example, afterall, of good breeding, impeccable decorum, and high civility. That they've insisted on cultivating their relationship, continually, diligently stoking the coals of red-hot ardor--in the public eye nonetheless--knowing what's at stake--that's fire.That is the fairytale Princess Di thought she would be living. If there is such a thing as true love, Charles and Camilla have it.

I heartily congratulate Prince Charles and Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall on their long awaited nuptials, and wish them every happiness.

Cindy

Happy Friday

It is Venus day, folks, and just hours away from Happy Hour. So while I'm still of sound mind and body, let me get a few things off my chest.

The pope is buried. Finally. I couldn't stay up to watch the whole funeral, but I'm taking everyone's word that he has been laid in the grotto under the Bascillica. I've ridden a whole lot of emotions since his death vigil, a week ago: admiration, sadness, relief, among others. But as the days wore on, and mourners snaked into the Bascillica for one last look at the man who endeared himself to both Catholics and non-Catholics alike over his 26-year papacy, I asked myself, "I wonder what he smells like?"

He'd been reposed on the bier--unembalmed, for almost a week. His face, I noticed,had become ashier as the days went by. Mottling was visible in his ear lobes, his nose, and chin. Health concerns aside, I suppose this is the best way to witness--should any occur--saintly post-mortem attributes such as sweet and floral odors exuding from the body, and the absence of decay. And you know there will be people who come away with those very reports. Perhaps the miracle happens in the minds and the senses of the grieving pilgrims, rather than manifesting from or around the holy corpse.

And this brings me to this week's poem--just like I promised. I'm inclined to believe that death has become impatient with the whole 'get 'em in threes' arrangement, and has been gathering us up in ever increasing clusters. So after a day of dying, in a week of dying, in a year of dying, in this season of dying, in this culture of death, I present The Bells. It's not a new poem, but it suits the mood. Have a good weekend y'all.


The Bells

The fruit is ripe,
the husk is yellow--
this is the pain of death.

A pond has settled
in my throat.
It grows white lilies
under rasping toads.
I break my body
against the wall, the stone
partition between Earth
and Heaven.

I've turned deaf
to those in vigil
for the distraction
of the bells that call
me to them--
it's almost time.
This is the pain of death.

The air is sweet
with sun-steeped violets
the warm incense
of decathexis.

The bells peal
in my honor.
They're singing brighter--
I won't be late.
Closer now to those bells;
I am so close to music.

Cindy St. Onge

Cindy St. Onge

Welcome!

Welcome to the inaugural posting at Wordlust/Paperfetish!

This will be my sanctuary of self-indulgent bombast and incendiary feminist propaganda. Over the coming days and weeks, as we become acquainted, you'll be treated to my opinion on current events--and maybe some old, stale events too. You'll be privy to my daily insights, should I ever have one, and once a week, on Fridays, I'll post a sample of my morbid, sullen poetry. It'll be how I binge on the threshold of each weekend.

I'll write about all kinds of things, like writing itself, spirituality, dream interpretation, places I never thought I'd see hair grow, and stuff I hate.

I hope you find Wordlust/Paperfetish entertaining, insightful, and if nothing else, an eye-glazing distraction.

Buttered side up,

Cindy